forni* 
lal 

y 


5 


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THE 


EARLY    CALLED, 


THE     STOIC, 


THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL. 


PHILADELPHIA : 

CAREY,   LEA,   AND    BLANCHARD. 
1836. 


PIUNTP.D    BY 

HAS  WELL  &  BARRINGTON, 

ST.    JAMES     STREET. 


THE   EARLY  CALLED. 


BT    THB    AUTHOR    OF 


CHAPTERS     ON     CHURCHYARDS. 


2212583 


CHAPTER  I. 


"  Leaves  have  their  time  to  full, 

And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind's  breath, 
And  stars  to  set  ;  but  all  — 

Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  Oh  Death  P' 

MRS.    IlliMANS. 


..  . 

FOUR  years  ago,  towards  the  close  of  the  last  winter 
of  my  sojourn  in  Italy,  I  became  acquainted  at  Naples 
with  an  English  family,  consisting  of  three  persons, 
an  elderly  widow  lady,  and  her  orphan  nephew  and 
niece  —  the  children  of  an  only  sister,  bequeathed  on 
the  death  of  their  parents,  while  still  infants,  to  their 
aunt's  guardianship. 

Mrs.  Arden's  childless  widowhood  had  been  fondly 
devoted  to  the  trust  so  sacredly  confided,  and  the 
orphans  committed  to  her  care  became  to  her  as  her 
own  children,  and  repaid  her  maternal  tenderness  with 
the  fulness  of  filial  love,  and  the  promise  in  mind  and 
person  of  a  beautiful  maturity.  Lovely  and  alike  they 
were  in  mind  and  person  those  youthful  creatures, 
when  I  first  saw  them,  a  few  weeks  after  their  arrival 
at  Naples  ;  and,  but  for  my  knowledge  of  the  cause 
that  had  brought  them  thither,  little  should  I  have  sus- 
pected any  fatal  indications  in  the  transparent  com- 
plexion, and  bright  bloom  of  the  sister's  cheek,  and  in 
the  liquid  lustre  of  her  soft  blue  eye.  But  so  it  was. 


8  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

The  seal  of  death  was  there  ;  and  although  on  the  first 
symptoms  of  disease  Mrs.  Arden  had  hurried  with 
her  darling  to  a  softer  climate,  little  hope  had  been 
held  out  to  her  that  the  change  would  lead  to  perma- 
nent recovery,  for  the  seeds  of  the  insidious  malady 
had  been  a  part  of  the  orphans'  inheritance  derived  to 
them  from  both  parents,  who  had  fallen  its  victims 
within- two  years  of  each  other.  The  children  had 
also  inherited  the  marked  and  peculiar  character  of 
beauty  which  had  distinguished  their  deceased  mother 
— that  fearful  beauty — so  touching  !  so  unearthly  !  and 
yet,  like  rose?  on  a  sepulchre,  masking  decay  and 
death.  With  what  unspeakable  tenderness — what  un- 
remitting care,  had  their  maternal  guardian  watched 
over  the  infancy  and  childhood  of  those  two  beautiful 
creatures,  so  endeared  tenfold  by  their  orphan  state, 
and  by  the  circumstances  which  made  their  hold  on 
life  so  far  more  precarious  than  is  even  the  common 
tenure  of  mortality. 

"  They  were  such  little  angels!"  she  once  said  to 
me,  when  speaking  of  their  bygone  years — "  when 
they  knelt  before  me,  side  by  side,  with  their  little 
hands  joined  together,  and  their  sweet  eyes  lifted  up 
so  reverently,  and  both  young  voices  mingling  into 
one  silver  sound,  as  they  said  their  evening  prayer ! 
Oh,  I  have  looked  at  them  till  my  eyes  were  dim  with 
tears,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  must  resign  them — as  if  they 
had  but  to  spread  their  wings,  and  finish  in  Heaven 
the  last  strains  of  their  concluding  hymn!" 

Poor  Mrs.  Arden  !     It  was  thus  she  poured  out  to 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  9 

me  the  fulness  of  her  heart  but  a  few  evenings  before 
the  partial  fulfilment  of  that  sad  and  tender  foreboding 
in  the  death  of  her  sweet  niece.  Unavailing  was  the 
balmy  breath  of  the  sweet  south — unavailing  the  phy- 
sician's skill,  and  the  solicitude  of  devoted  affection  ! 
The  youngest  of  the  orphan  pair — the  fair  Ann  Ross — 
died,  and  was  buried  in  the  land  of  the  stranger  ;  and 
when  I  looked  at  the  young  Herbert,  in  his  deep 
mourning  for  her  to  whom  his  heart  had  clung  with 
more  than  a  brother's  love,  with  whose  life  his  life 
had  been  bound  up  by  such  ties  as  the  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances of  their  orphan  state  could  only  have 
entwined — when  I  gazed  on  the  youthful  mourner's 
tall  and  slender  form — the  feminine  delicacy  of  his 
complexion — the  varying  colour  of  his  cheek — and  the 
sickly  whiteness  of  his  long  thin  fingers,  so  strongly 
contrasted  by  the  black  sleeve,  my  heart  was  wrung 
by  a  painful  conviction  that  on  him  also  the  Death 
Angel  had  set  the  awful  seal — that  he  too  was  doomed 
to  pass  away  in  the  first  flower  of  his  youth,  and 
to  be  laid  in  his  sister's  grave,  before  the  young  cy- 
presses that  he  had  planted  with  his  own  hand,  round 
the  marble  urn  on  which  her  name  was  inscribed, 
should  spread  their  tender  fibres  in  the  consecrated 
mould,  and  put  forth  their  earliest  shoots. 

I  was  mistaken,  however.  The  young  man's  days 
were  not  so  nearly  numbered.  Life  was  strong  within 
him, and  disease  had  made  as  yet  no  serious  progress  in  a 
constitution,  the  delicate  organization  of  which  had  but 
evinced  its  sympathy  with  the  acute  sensibilities  of  a 
B  2 


10  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

moral  frame  of  still  finer  workmanship.  Herbert  Ross 
felt  and  believed,  when  he  laid  his  only  sister  in  that 
untimely  grave,  that  his  young  life,  henceforth  com- 
panionless  and  joyless,  was  a  boon,  the  continuance  of 
which  was  little  to  be  desired  at  the  hands  of  that 
mysterious  Providence,  whose  decree  had  then  appa- 
rently gone  forth  against  himself,  the  lonely  one  and 
last  of  his  doomed  race.  But  the  grief  of  youth, 
poignant,  and  passionate,  and  bitter  as  it  is,  eats  not 
into  the  heart  like  the  sorrows  of  later  life,  and  the  yet 
unbroken  spirit  will  struggle  into  light  and  gladness,  in 
spite  of  the  remorseful  tenderness,  which  deems  it  even 
sinful  to  take  comfort.  And  life,  prolonged  life,  was 
still  a  precious  boon  to  Herbert  Ross,  for  the  youth's 
mind  was  full  of  ardent  and  aspiring  day-dreams — 
the  sunny  brightness  of  which  had  been  overshadowed 
for  a  time  only  by  the  calamity  which  had  befallen 
him.  Not  towards  worldly  honours,  or  worldly  we;>lth, 
or  any  of  the  vain  glories  of  this  world  were  directed 
the  aspirations  of  that  young  fervent  mind — not  more 
deeply  imbued  with  sensibility,  than  with  the  religious 
feeling  which  controls  and  sanctifies  what  is  otherwise 
too  apt  to  degenerate  into  amiable  weakness. 

By  the  desire  of  his  maternal  guardian,  more  than 
seconded  by  his  own  free  will  and  choice,  Herbert  had 
been  early  destined  for  the  ministry  of  the  gospel  ; 
and  though  Mrs.  Arden  had  been  deterred  from  sending 
him  to  a  public  school,  by  the  early  delicacy  of  his 
constitution,  he  had  been  carefully  prepared  by  pri- 
vate tuition  for  the  .great  duties  he  was  at  a  proper  age 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  11 

to  take  upon  himself ;  and  the  time  was  now  come 
when  (if  his  return  to  England  was  permitted)  he  was 
to  enter  on  the  course  of  university  studies. 

Yet  a  few  months  the  aunt  and  the  nephew  lingered 
on  in  the  land  of  "the  olive  and  the  myrtle,"  till  the 
apparently  complete  re-establishment  of  the  young 
man's  health  warranted  their  return  to  England.  Then 
taking  their  last  farewell  of  the  dear  kindred  dust 
left  to  moulder  among  that  of  strangers — (who  but 
those  who  have  felt  can  appreciate  the  bitterness  of 
that  final  parting?) — they  embarked,  and  sailed  away 
for  ever  from  the  classic  shores  of  Italy,  about  the 
time  that  I  also  quitted  Naples,  in  pursuance  of  a  long 
projected  plan  of  continued  travel,  over  far  distant 
countries. 

At  Constantinople,  where  I  made  some  stay,  and 
received  letters  from  England,  one  among  them  (not 
the  least  welcome  of  the  many)  conveyed  to  me  the 
gratifying  intelligence,  that  after  a  prosperous  voyage, 
during  which  the  health  of  her  nephew  had  continued 
to  improve,  Mrs.  Arden  had  arrived  with  him  at  their 
country  residence  in  Warwickshire,  and  shortly  after- 
wards had  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  comfort- 
ably installed,  under  the  most  advantageous  circum- 
stances, in  his  college  rooms,  at  Cambridge. 

No  stipulation  of  regular  correspondence  had  been 
entered  into  between  Mrs.  Arden  and  myself,  and 
any  such  would  indeed  have  been  of  impossible 
observance,  during  the  continued  wanderings  of  my 
next  three  years,  so  that  I  wholly  lost  sight  of  my 


12  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

lately  acquired  friends,  and  though  for  a  time  the  re- 
membrance of  them  often  presented  itself  to  my  mind, 
I  confess  with  shame,  that  it  recurred  less  and  less 
frequently,  as  perpetual  change  of  place  and  scene, 
crowded  on  my  mind  successive  objects  of  interest  and 
attention  ;  and  when  at  the  conclusion  of  my  third 
year  of  vagrancy,  I  turned  my  face  homewards,  and 
found  myself  again  on  English  ground,  and  in  the 
English  home,  which  had  never  been  forgotten,  or  less 
loved,  among  the  fairest  of  foreign  scenes,  my  thoughts 
— my  mind — my  heart — were  for  a  time  so  engrossed 
by  that  dear  home,  and  all  it  contained  and  was 
associated  with,  that  still  no  flash  of  recollection 
brought  before  me  the  images  of  those  two  persons 
from  whom  I  had  parted  at  Naples  but  three  years 
back,  with  feelings  of  most  affectionate  interest. 

Summer  was  drawing  towards  a  close  when  I  reached 
my  native  country,  and  after  a  few  weeks  continuance 
at  my  paternal  home,  where  the  return  of  the  long 
absent  son  and  brother  had  made  a  festival  of  family 
rejoicing,  I  left  it  with  regret  to  prove  the  virtues  of 
the  mineral  baths  of  Buxton,  fora  rheumatic  complaint 
contracted  during  my  travels,  for  which  they  had  been 
strongly  recommended  to  me. 

There  was  little  company  at  the  watering  place  when 
I  arrived  there,  and  but  few  persons  located  in  the 
hotel  where  I  took  up  my  abode — and  when  the  dinner 
hour  assembled  us  at  the  public  table,  I  glanced  round 
it  in  some  dismay,  at  the  unpromising  aspect  of  the 
half  dozen  individuals,  who  with  myself  composed  the 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  13 

party  ; — a  pair  of  lean,  long  visaged,  upright  gentle- 
women, of  a  very  certain  age,  whom  I  set  down  for 
maiden  sisters — and  for  their  niece,  a  high  shouldered 
girl  with  a  mop  head,  and  red  elbows,  who  was  care- 
fully flanked  on  either  side,  as  we  took  our  seats  by 
the  aforesaid  grim  duennas ;  a  quizzy  couple,  self-pro- 
claimed as  man  and  wife  by  their  tender  interchange 
of  "Mr.  P.,  my  dear,"  and  "Mrs.  P.,  my  love!" 
and  a  long,  emaciated,  fretful  looking  elderly  gentle- 
Jnan,  stuffed  out  with  half  a  dozen  showy  waistcoats, 
with  a  face  as  yellow  as  a  daffodil,  a  turquoise  brooch, 
and  an  emererald  ring — and  addressed  ?.s  "Sahib  !"  by 
the  Asiatic  servant  who  stood  behind  his  chair  with 
downcast  eyes  and  folded  arms. 

I  looked  round  me  with  a  despairing  gaze,  and  my 
anticipations  by  no  means  brightened  as  the  meal  pro- 
ceeded in  unsocial — English  silence — or  coid  and 
formal  interchange,  of  the  most  indispensable  courte- 
sies. The  maiden  sisters  spoke  only  in  admonitory 
whispers  to  their  awkward  charge — with  an  occasional 
nudge  on  either  side,  as  she  intruded  her  red  peaked 
elbows  into  their  balloon  sleeves.  The  married  pair 
seriously  addressed  themselves  to  the  business  of 
eating,  and  recommending  various  dishes  to  each 
other,  and  the  East  India  Colonel  (he  could  be  no  less) 
rated  his  Asiatic  attendant  all  dinner  time,  in  half 
English,  half  Hindostanee,  for  having  left  behind  a 
certain  indispensable  bottle  of  Cayenne.  I  was  already 
debating  with  myself  how  long  it  was  possible  for 
mortal  endurance  to  hold  out,  condemned  to  such  asso- 


14  THE    EARLT    CALLED, 

ciation — when  just  as  the"  cloth  had  been  removed,  the 
sound  of  wheels  was  heard  rapidly  approaching,  and 
in  another  minute  the  running  of  waiters  and  a  bustle 
at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  denoted  the  blest  certainty  of 
a  fresh  arrival. 

All  eyes  were  attracted  to  the  open  door  of  the 
eating-room,  by  which  the  new  comer  must  necessarily 
pass — as  marshalled  by  the  obsequious  master  of  the 
hotel  towards  the  upper  apartments.  And  mine,  alas  ! 
fell  in  blank  disappointment,  after  resting  for  a  second 
on  the  figure  of  a  lady  dressed  in  deep  mourning, 
apparently  elderly  and  infirm,  for  she  leant  on  the  arm 
of  her  attendant,  and  slowly  followed  the  bustling 
landlord.  "But  after  all  she  looks  like  a  lady," 
thought  I  to  myself,  glancing  round  at  the  present 
company — and  I  was  not  among  the  least  curious  to 
learn  the  name  of  the  new  comer — when  at  the  tea  table 
(at  which  she  did  not  make  her  appearance)  the  book 
of  arrivals  was  requested,  and  handed  round  for  gene- 
ral information.  It  circulated  in  silence,  and  last  came 
my  turn  of  inspection,  but  "  the  party  in  the  parlour" 
were  soon  electrified  by  my  sudden  start  and  exclama- 
tion at  sight  of  the  newly  inscribed  name.  It  was  that 
of  Mrs.  Arden. 

Throughout  the  range  of  mental  phenomena,  there 
are  few  more  assimilating  to  the  marvellous  than  the 
sudden  and  perfect  distinctness  with  which  scenes  and 
circumstances,  long  past  and  long  forgotten,  are  often 
recalled  in  their  most  minute  details,  and  crowded  as 
it  were  into  a  moment's  memory,— though  having 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  15 

perhaps  occupied  successive  weeks  or  months  in  their 
actual  occurrence,  by  some  chance-word  or  name 
unexpectedly  pronounced,  some  flower,  or  perfume, 
or  a  few  notes  of  music,  connected  with  the  buried 
past  by  links  of  association  that,  like  those  of  an  elec- 
tric chain,  communicate  the  vivifying  spark  with 
inconceivable  rapidity. 

In  a  moment  I  was  transported  to  sunny  Italy,  to 
the  pleasant  villa  at  Castel-a-Mare,  which  had  been 
occupied  by  my  English  friends.  I  sat  with  them  on 
its  seaward  terrace  in  the  cool  of  evening,  gathering  up 
the  fallen  orange  flowers,  to  lay  on  the  lap  of  a  fair 
dying  girl,  who  thanked  me  with  a  sad  sweet  smile  as 
her  head  dropt  languidly  on  the  shoulder  of  her  young 
brother,  whose  arm,  as  he  sat  beside  her,  encircled  her 
slight  form.  And  there  was  the  guardian  aunt  sorrow- 
fully gazing  on  her  adopted  orphans — and  then  a  bell 
tolled  ! — the  vesper  bell  of  a  neighbouring  convent—- 
and the  scene  changed — and  I  stood  by  a  lonely  grave, 
in  the  English  burying-ground — a  lonely  grave,  dis- 
tinguished by  an  urn  of  white  marble,  and  a  few  young 
cypresses — and  again — my  friends  were  with  me — 
two  only  of  the  three — and  of  those  two,  one — sinking 
fast  into  his  sister's  grave.  The  beautiful  boy ! — 
scarce  youth.  But  from  him  the  death-shadow  passed 
away — and  health  restrung  his  frame — and  then,  again, 
the  scene  shifted — and  lo !  the  surviving  two  stood, 
wafting  their  farewell  from  a  ship's  deck.  The  white 
canvass  swelled  and  filled  in  the  favouring  breeze — and 
the  good  ship  sailed  away,  and  I  watched  her  course 


16  THE    EARLY   CALLED* 

till  she  lessened  to  a  speck  in  the  offing — and  when 
that  also  disappeared,  I  found  myself  standing  with 
the  arrival-book  in  my  hand,  and  my  eyes  riveted  on 
the  newly  written  name,  the  sound  of  which  was  but 
dying  on  my  lips  as  I  returned  to  actual  perception  of 
the  external  world. 

Hastily  I  rang  for  the  waiter,  and  despatched  him 
with  my  card  to  Mrs.  Arden's  apartments,  having 
scribbled  on  it  with  a  pencil  a  petition  to  be  admitted 
to  take  my  coffee  with  her.  "  But  where,"  I  added, 
in  my  unreflective  gladness,  "  where  is  my  friend 
Herbert?" — "Fagging  hard  at  college,"  I  replied  as 
inconsiderately  to  my  own  query  as  the  waiter  departed 
on  his  mission :  but  he  had  scarcely  disappeared,  when 
a  thought  suggested  itself — a  fearful  thought !  It  was 
vacation  time — Mrs.  Arden  was  alone — ill — in  deep 
mourning — where  was  Herbert1} 

My  first  glance  at  the  face  of  my  respected  friend, 
as  I  entered  her  apartment,  changed  conjecture  into 
certainty — into  fatal  certainty.  She  held  out  her 
hand  to  me  in  silence,  (all  eloquent  silence,)  and  her 
lip  quivered  as  she  turned  away  from  my  inquiring 
look,  and,  leaning  upon  the  mantelpiece,  gave  way  for 
a  few  moments  to  the  relief  of  tears. 

"God  comfort  you,  my  dear  madam!"  was  the 
only  greeting  I  had  power  to  speak,  when,  with 
glistening  eyes,  but  a  composed  and  placid  coun- 
tenance, she  again  turned  towards  me,  with  a  kind 
pressure  of  the  hand,  that  still  held  hers,  and  full  well 
she  knew  that  I  needed  not  to  be  told  the  cause  of  her 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  17 

affliction,  or  to  what  event  she  alluded,  when,  with  an 
upward  glance  of  meek  resignation,  she  softly  said — 
"  Yes,  my  good  friend !  they  are  now  both  angels  in 
Heaven." 

From  that  evening  of  our  first  sad  meeting  to  the 
conclusion  of  my  three  weeks'  stay  at  Buxton,  there 
were  few  days  of  which  I  did  not  spend  the  greater 
part  in  the  society  of  my  valued  friend  ;  and,  in  the 
course  of  those  quiet  confidential  hours,  it  was  her 
chief  solace  to  talk  with  me  of  her  departed  dear  ones, 
and  especially,  with  the  fond  minuteness  of  grief  in 
its  first  freshness,  of  him  so  recently  committed  to  the 
grave. 

My  interest  for  the  beautiful  boy  I  had  known  at 
Naples  under  such  affecting  circumstances  was  vividly 
reawakened  by  those  details  of  his  short  life,  and  its 
concluding  scene,  so  deeply  imprinted  on  the  heart's 
memory  of  her,  who,  in  full  confidence  of  my  affection- 
ate sympathy,  was  wont  to  pour  out  to  me  her  treasured 
recollections,  with  that  careless  effusion  of  feeling,  in 
the  indulgence  of  which  the  real  mourner  finds  more 
relief  than  in  a  connected  and  formal  narrative. 

To  me,  however,  it  has  been  a  pleasing  occupation 
to  build  up,  as  it  were,  from  those  unarranged  frag- 
ments, a  simple  monument  to  the  memory  of  Herbert 
Ross — a  short  record  of  the  uneventful  but  pathetic 
passages  of  his  brief  earthly  career.  Turn  from  it, 
worldly,  fashionable  reader  !  It  would  be  to  you 
tasteless  and  insipid,  as  simple  cottage  fare  to  the  palate 
of  an  experiened  epicure — as  a  quiet  country  life,  com- 


IS  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

pared  with  your  artificial  system  of  society.  Kind  and 
gentle  reader  ! — you  whose  sensibility  to  the  common 
pains  and  common  pleasures  of  your  fellow-creatures, 
to  their  real  joys  and  sorrows,  is  not  yet  vitiated  by 
false  excitement,  or  rendered  callous  by  worldly  sel- 
fishness— look  with  an  indulgent  eye  over  "  the  short 
and  simple  annals"  of  a  life  which  has  left  no  trace  on 
earth  beside  this  humble  record,  and  the  tender  recol- 
lections of  a  few  unforgetting  hearts.  It  is,  indeed, 
"  an  owre  true  tale,"  and  I  tell  it  you  as  "  'twas  told 
to  me,"  (though  not  in  regular  sequence,)  as  nearly  as 
possible  in  her  words,  whose  language  was  that  of  the 
heart,  and  can  hardly  fail,  therefore,  of  touching  some 
sympathetic  chord  in  yours. 

"  My  dear  Herbert,"  said  Mrs.  Arden,  "  entered 
upon  the  course  of  university  studies,  which  was  to 
complete  his  preparation  for  holy  orders,  with  the 
fairest  prospects — the  happiest  and  purest  views.  His 
health,  as  you  may  remember,  Mr.  Lindsay,  had  so 
materially  improved,  during  the  latter  part  of  our 
stay  in  Italy,  and  (as  I  wrote  you)  on  our  homeward 
voyage,  as  to  aflbrd  reasonable  ground  for  hope,  that, 
when  the  tall  and  slender  frame  had  attained  its  full 
stature,  his  constitution  would  have  power  to  throw  off 
any  lurking  taint  of  hereditary  malady,  and  settle  into 
permanent  vigour. 

"'Fear  not  for  me,  my  dear  aunt/  was  his  cheerful 
reply  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  for  Cambridge,  to  my 
reiterated  charges  about  his  health,  and  fond  entreaties 
that  he  would  not,  endanger  it  by  too  intense  and  unre- 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  19 

mitting  application — 'Fear  not  for  me,  my  dear  aunt, 
that  I  shall  overtask  myself;  with  the  end  for  which 
I  labour  full  in  view,  I  shall  find  the  path  pleasant  and 
the  progress  easy  ;  and  for  this  frail  frame  of  mine, 
already  so  wonderfully  reinvigorated,  if  the  master  to 
whose  service  I  devote  myself  has  work  for  me  to  do, 
will  he  not  supply  "  strength  sufficient"  for  me  ?' 

"  My  heart  sank  within  me  as  he  spoke  thus,  for 
the  deep  flush  that  suffused  his  cheek,  and  the  kindling 
lustre  of  his  eye,  were  tokens  fatally  familiar  to  me. 
But  if  indeed  the  fiat  had  gone  forth,  what  human 
power  could  prevail  against  it  ?  I  committed  him  to 
God,  and  he  departed. 

"  During  the  early  part  of  his  first  term,  he  continued 
to  write  me  the  most  regular  and  comforting  accounts 
of  his  perfect  health — his  moderation  in  study — (I 
feared  no  other  excess  on  his  part) — and  of  his  allow- 
ing himself  (in  observance  of  the  promise  I  had  exacted) 
an  ample  portion  of  time  for  sleep  and  exercise.  f  And 
yet,  indeed,  my  dear  aunt,'  he  sometimes  added, (  you 
make  me  too  slothful,  too  self-indulgent,  and  I  believe 
unnecessarily  so,  for  my  serious  occupations  are  those 
most  delightful  to  me,  and  could  not  therefore  be 
physically  injurious,  though  permitted  to  encroach  a 
little  upon  those  hours  of  sleep  and  idleness,  which 
abstract  such  precious  portions  from  the  irredeemable 
account  of  time.  But  you  have  my  promise,  and  I 
adhere  to  it  faithfully.7 

"Alas !  that  he  had  continued  to  do  so  ;  but  gradu- 
ally, though  he  never  relaxed  in  the  frequency  of 


20  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

writing,  his  letters  became  shorter  and  less  satisfactory 
— rarely  touching  on,  and  at  last  wholly  omitting, 
those  minute  personal  details  so  deeply  interesting  to 
me  ;  and  when  I  questioned  and  even  urged  him  on 
the  subject,  he  briefly  assured  me  he  was  '  Well,  quite 
well /  but  no  longer  reiterated  the  pledge  I  had  so 
fondly  exacted.  The  inference  was  obvious.  His 
ardent  and  enthusiastic  nature  had  thrown  off  those 
shackles  of  prudential  restraint,  to  which,  for  my  sake 
only,  he  had  submitted,  for  a  season,  and  from  the 
acknowledgment  of  his  tutor  and  other  college  friends 
I  learnt,  in  confirmation  of  my  fears,  that  his  days 
and  nights  were  devoted  to  the  most  intense  application, 
with  scarcely  the  intermission  of  a  few  hours  grudg- 

J  o  O 

ingly  yielded  to  the  demands  of  nature.  '  But  his 
health  continues,  to  all  appearance,  uninjured/  wras 
the  assurance  added  to  these  alarming  reports.  *  There 
are  no  indications  of  debility  about  him,  of  an  over- 
tasked mind,  or  a  failing  body — depend  upon  it,  you 
are  distressing  yourself  without  cause.  He  will  live 
to  rank  high  among  the  most  distinguished  for  know- 
ledge and  usefulness.' 

"  I  endeavoured  to  take  comfort  in  these  assurances 
and  anticipations  of  my  dear  Herbert's  friends  :  but 
oh !  how  hollow  are  such  comforts  to  the  heart  of  a 
mother  who  trembles  for  the  life  of  a  dear  and  only 
child  ! — and  was  not  Herbert  as  a  son  to  me? 

"I  was,  however,  sensible  that  farther  importunity 
would  but  distress,  without  restraining  him  in  his  now 
determined  career.  '  I  kept  silence/  therefore, l  though 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  21 

it  was  pain  and  grief  to  me,'  on  the  unprofitable  sub- 
ject, and  awaited  with  what  composure  I  could  assume 
the  approaching  vacation,  which  would  at  least  enable 
me  to  form  my  own  judgment  of  the  truth  of  those 
flattering  assurances  I  had  received  from  himself  and 
others. 

"  He  came,  and  the  first  day  of  his  return  relieved 
me  from  a  load  of  apprehension.  He  looked  almost 
as  I  could  have  desired,  far  better  than  I  had  hoped  to 
see  him.  In  person,  indeed,  still  slender  and  flexile 
as  a  young  cypress  ;  but  then  his'  tall  form  had  shot 
up  some  inches  since>our  last  parting ;  and  if  his  com- 
plexion was  still  that  of  almost  feminine  delicacy,  it 
could  have  acquired  no  healthful  bronze  during  the 
course  of  his  sedentary  labours,  and  it  argued  well  for 
the  future,  that  at  least  his  constitution  did  not  appear 
to  have  lost. ground  in  the  severe  ordeal  to  which  it 
had  been  subjected.  In  mind  and  heart  I  found  him 
as  he  had  ever  been — even  as  you  remember  him,  Mr. 
Lindsay,  in  the  days  of  his  beautiful  boyhood- — the 
purest,  the  most  affectionate,  the  most  endearing  and 
interesting  of  created  beings.  And  his  intellectual 
powers,  which  were,  I  believe,  of  the  first  order,  had 
expanded  to  a  degree  that  surpassed  even  the  sanguine 
expectations  of  his  first  tutor,  our  worthy  rector,  Mr. 
Wilmot. 

"  The  first  few  days  of  his  return  were  devoted 

almost  entirely  to  me,  and  to  revisiting  every  spot  of 

1  dear  Merivale,'  as  he  was  ever  wont  to  term  the  house 

I  so  fondly  hoped  he  would  inherit,  which  had  been 

c  2 


22  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

more  particularly  the  scene  of  his  boyish  and  youthful 
pleasures.  But  among  them,  his  most  cherished  haunts 
were  those  associated  with  the  memory  of  his  lost 
sister — and  often,  during  his  stay  at  Merivale,  would 
he  steal  away  with  his  book  to  an  arbour  they  had 
built  together,  from  whence,  over  the  sweetbrier-hedge 
which  divided  it  from  a  small  paddock,  he  could  fon- 
dle and  feed  her  old  white  pony,  who  had  his  run  for 
life  in  luxurious  idleness. 

"  You  have  often  smiled,  Mr.  Lindsay,  at  the  ro- 
mantic fancies  of '  the  young  dreamer,'  as  you  used  to 
call  my  poor  Herbert.  You  read  him  well  ;  and  the 
natural  enthusiasm  of  his  character,  acquiring  strength 
with  years,  and  becoming  more  concentrated  as  it  was 
more  carefully  repressed,  gained  at  last  a  morbid  as- 
cendancy in  the  moral  system.  From  his  very  infancy 
my  Herbert,  though  at  all  times  sweet-tempered,  and 
often  innocently  gay  and  playful,  was  of  a  serious  and 
thoughtful  nature — loving  to  steal  away  by  himself, 
and  spent  whole  hours  in  the  woods  surrounding  our 
house,  or  by  the  brook  side,  under  pretence  of  angling. 
But  his  fishing-basket  was  brought  home  for  the  most 
part  empty,  and  his  tackle  in  a  state  little  creditable  to 
the  young  disciple  of  Isaac  Walton,  whose  '  Complete 
Angler'  was  his  darling  companion  ;  and  contained 
evidence,  on  its  fly-leaves  and  on  every  spot  of  blank 
paper,  that  the  youthful  fisherman  was  more  emulous 
of  his  master's  poetic  vein,  than  of  proficiency  in  his 
favourite  sport. 

"  But  we  seldom  ventured  to  jest  with  him  on  the 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  23 

subject  of  his  unsuccessful  wanderings,  or  to  pry  into 
the  innocent  mystery  of  his  poetic  secrets — his  height- 
ened colour  and  often  glistening  eye  evincing  on  such 
occasions  that  painful  shyness  so  generally  charac- 
teristic of  deep  and  acute  sensibility.  Time  and 
thought,  and  solitary  studies,  had  but  fed  and  concen- 
trated the  secret  flame,  feeding  it  with  high  hopes  and 
lofty  aspirings,  and  glorious  visions,  but  not  of  this 
•world's  glories. 

"  We  had  not  been  long  together  before  I  began  to 
perceive,  that  if  no  unfavourable  change  had  taken  place 
in  Herbert's  bodily  health,  the  tone  of  his  mind  had 
undergone  alteration  (and  that  of  a  disquieting  nature) 
during  his  college  residence.  There  was  an  increased 
degree  of  excitability  about  him.  He  fell  more  fre- 
quently, even  in  the  social  circle,  into  fits  of  long  and 
deep  abstraction ;  and  if  an  opportunity  occurred,  sel- 
dom failed  to  steal  away  to  his  books  or  solitary  mus- 
ings, and  I  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  some 
change  had  taken  place  in  his  religious  views,  and  in 
the  sober  and  rational  purpose  with  which  he  had 
hitherto  looked  forward  to  his  sacred  destination. 

"  I  found  that  his  few  college  associates  had  been 
selected  among  a  set  of  persons  assuming  to  themselves 
the  designation  of 'serious  young  men;'  and  that  with 
a  little  knot  of  these — highly  gifted  and  of  unquesti- 
onable moral  character,  though  far  gone  in  Calvinistic 
error — Herbert -had  associated  himself,  not  only  during 
his  short  intervals  of  relaxation,  but  in  theological 
studies  and  religious  exercises,  the  fruit  of  which  in- 


24  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

tcrcourse  had  been  to  unsettle  and  perplex  his  mind, 
exciting  in  it  doubts  and  scruples,  not  only  on  doc- 
trinal points,  but  respecting  the  justifiableness  of  en- 
tering upon  the  ministry  with  any  contingent  views 
of  temporal  advantage — the  presentation  to  the  small 
living  of  Merivale  having  been  promised  to  Herbert 
by  the  relation  in  whose  gift  it  was,  after  his  decision 
on  taking  holy  orders,  and  it  was  in  fact  held  for  him 
by  our  friend  Mr.  Wilmot  until  such  time  as  he  should 
be  qualified  to  take  upon  himself  the  sacred  responsi- 
bility. Except  the  small  estate  of  Merivale,  I  had 
little  in  my  power  to  bequeath  to  my  adopted  son — 
whose  trifling  patrimonial  inheritance  would  have  been 
insufficient  to  enable  him  to  reside  in  that  endeared 
home,  without  the  additional  income  of  the  living  in 
question.  The  unsolicited  and  unexpected  promise 
had  been  accepted  by  my  dear  Herbert  with  ardent 
gratitude,  for  on  the  prospect  so  extended  to  him,  how 
many  and  how  delightful  were  the  paths  of  spiritual 
and  temporal  usefulness  that  would  lay  before  him. 
With  a  heart  and  head  full  of  these  pure  hopes  and 
pious  views,  he  went  to  college.  Alas  !  that  the  inter- 
vention of  mistaken  zeal  should  have  disturbed  the 
moral  calm  based  on  so  irreproachable  a  purpose. 

"  It  was  with  considerable  uneasiness  that  I  became 
gradually  aware  of  the  mischief  fermenting  in  his 
ardent  and  enthusiastic  mind,  and  I  lost  no  time  in 
communicating  to  Mr.  Wilmot  the  result  of  my  obser- 
vations. He  entered  warmly  into  my  fears  and 
feelings,  and  from  that  time  lost  no  opportunity  of 


THE    EARLY   CALLED.  25 

being  alone  with  his  late  pupil,  and  of  engaging  him 
in  confidential  discussion  of  his  newly  conceived 
doubts  and  conscientious  scruples.  Herbert  had  always 
felt  great  attachment,  and  entertained  high  respect  for 
his  venerable  instructor,  knowing  him  to  be  indeed 
the  faithful  and  zealous  servant  of  his  Heavenly  Mas- 
ter. This  renewed  intercourse  between  tutor  and 
pupil  was  therefore  not  uninfluential  with  the  latter, 
and  I  parted  with  him,  on  his  return  to  Cambridge, 
with  sanguine  hope  that  the  happier  frame  of  mind 
and  fixedness  of  purpose  he  had  latterly  regained, 
would  not  again  be  disturbed  or  shaken  by  the  wild 
and  speculative  theories  of  that  'zeal  without  experi- 
ence' so  generally  tending  towards  dangerous  error — 
fanaticism,  or  infidelity. 

"Too  soon,  however,  the  constrained  and  ambiguous 
style  of  his  letters  gave  me  reason  to  fear  that  he  was 
relapsing  into  his  former  state  of  disquietude,  and  my 
reawakened  anxiety  was  cruelly  aggravated  by  the  re- 
port of  two  young  cantabs,  with  whom  I  found  myself 
in  company  at  the  house  of  a  neighbouring  gentleman. 
They  spoke  in  terms  of  high  respect  and  encomium  of 
the  moral  and  intellectual  qualities  of  my  dear  Her- 
bert, but  lamented  that,  at  his  first  entrance  in  the 
university,  he  had  been  thrown  into  the  society  of  a 
set  of  men,  who,  however  distinguished  by  their  abi- 
lities, and  sincere  in  their  religious  professions,  were 
far  gone  in  sectarian  errors,  and  justly  amenable  to  the 
charge  of  pharasaical  presumption  in  their  outward 
assumption  of  peculiar  sanctity  and  seriousness,  and  of 


26  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

a  conventional  language,  by  which,  as  by  a  sort  of 
freemasonry,  they  distinguished  the  individuals  of  their 
party. 

"  With  the  most  talented  and  distinguished  of  these 
young  aspirants,  a  Mr.  Melcomb,  Herbert  had  linked 
himself  in  intimate  friendship ;  and  I  heard  with  dis- 
may, that  the  former,  having  in  his  own  case  given  up 
high  expectations  in  the  church,  with  the  purpose  of 
devoting  himself  to  missionary  labours  in  far  distant 
lands,  was  using  his  powerful  influence  with  my  ne- 
phew to  detach  him  from  the  rationally  pious  views 
with  which  he  had  hitherto  looked  forward  to  ordina- 
tion, and  associate  him  in  his  own  projected  wander- 
ings. 

"  In  aggravation  of  this  disquieting  intelligence,  I 
gathered  from  the  reluctant  avowals  of  my  young  in- 
formants, that  many  persons  of  Herbert's  general 
acquaintance,  themselves  included,  had  been  of  late 
struck  by  his  personal  alteration,  and  the  strong  indi- 
cations of  over  excitement  and  feverish  illness  which 
had  been  for  some  time  past  apparent  in  him. 

"  You  may  better  imagine  than  I  can  describe  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  with  which  I  returned  to  my 
home  that  night ;  and  penned  before  I  slept  (or  rather 
before  I  sought  my  sleepless  bed)  a  note  to  the  good 
man,  so  affectionately  interested  for  Herbert,  to  whom 
I  had  resorted  in  my  former  perplexity,  requesting 
the  favour  of  an  early  visit  from  him  the  day  ensuing. 
He  found  me  almost  incapable,  from  agitation,  of  ex- 
plaining to  him  my  renewed  cause  for  anxiety,  so 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  27 

fearfully  had  it  been  increased,  by  the  contents  of  a 
letter,  brought  by  that  morning's  post.  A  few  strag- 
gling lines  in  an  unsteady  hand,  which  I  could  scarcely 
recognise  as  that  of  my  poor  Herbert,  informed  me, 
with  affectionate  precaution,  that  he  was  ill — { very  ill, 
certainly — but  he  hoped  not  dangerously — and  that — 
at  all  events — if — even — '  And  then  broke  off  ab- 
ruptly the  almost  illegible  scrawl,  to  which  Mr.  L., 
his  friendly  tutor,  had  subjoined  the  distressing  infor- 
mation that  my  poor  nephew's  affectionate  endeavour 
to  communicate  the  tidings  of  his  illness  to  me  in  his 
own  handwriting,  had  been  arrested,  by  a  violent 
paroxysm  of  the  disease,  which  had  assumed  the  formi- 
dable character  of  brain  fever.  Under  such  circum- 
stances, there  needed  not  the  cautiously  worded 
intimation  with  which  Mr.  L.'s  postscript  concluded, 
to  make  me  fully  aware  of  my  poor  Herbert's  im- 
minent danger,  or  to  decide  me  on  setting  out  for 
Cambridge  within  two  hours  from  the  receipt  of  that 
terrible  letter,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Wilmot,  who 
hastily,  made  his  arrangements  for  the  journey. 

"  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  feelings  with 
which  I  drew  near  the  place  and  moment  which  were 
to  end  my  dread  uncertainty  as  to  the  one  great  ques- 
tion '  life  or  death  ?'  That  answered  by  the  blessed 
words — l  He  still  lives' — I  could  gather  little  more  to 
cheer  or  to  encourage  me  in  the  after  report  of  the 
medical  men  who  were  in  attendance  on  my  poor 
sufferer.  For  more  than  ten  agonizing  days  he  strug- 
gled on  through  alternate  stages  of  fierce  delirium  and 


28  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

death-like  stupor.  But  the  crisis  was  favourable.  The 
fever  was  at  length  subdued,  and  though  reduced  to  a 
state  of  more  than  infant  weakness,  my  Herbert  was 
pronounced  out  of  actual  danger,  and  his  ultimate 
restoration  to  be  mainly  dependent  on  the  care  whicl 
should  be  taken,  during  a  tedious  convalescence,  tc 
keep  him  in  a  state  of  perfect  tranquillity  of  mind  and 
body.  Immediately  on  our  arrival  at  Cambridge,  he 
had  been  removed,  by  consent  of  his  physician,  to  a 
private  lodging,  and  I  was  the  more  thankful  for  this 
arrangement,  when  it  became  a  point  of  the  first  im- 
portance to  guard  him  from  the  slightest  agitation — 
and  from  every  sight  or  sound,  object  or  person,  in  the 
remotest  degree  likely  to  produce  it.  Among  the 
many  and  frequent  inquiries  for  my  poor  Herbert,  hit 
friend  Mr.  Melcomb  was  the  most  constant,  and  cer- 
tainly not  the  least  anxiously  interested.  During  the  sea 
son  of  pressing  and  imminent  danger,  I  had  had  neithe* 
thought  nor  moment  to  spare  from  the  one  engrossing 
object ;  but  when  the  dread  crisis  had  terminated  in  ; 
favourable  change,  I  saw  Mr.  Melcomb,  and  though  ii 
several  subsequent  interviews  with  him  I  found  my 
self,  in  spite  of  preconceived  opinion,  irresistibly 
charmed  by  his  amiable  and  engaging  manners,  cha- 
racterised though  they  were  by  the  conventiona 
language  of  his  party  ;  and  though  I  did  full  justice  tc 
his  purity  of  intention,  intellectual  powers,  and  sincere 
affection  for  my  nephew,  I  felt  but  the  more  confirmed 
in  my  determination  to  prevent  if  possible  all  inter- 
course between  him  and  Herbert,  during  the  interva 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  29 

that  must  still  elapse  before  the  latter  should  have  re- 
gained sufficient  strength  to  warrant  his  removal  to 
Merivale. 

"  As  my  nephew  slowly  revived  to  consciousness 
of  his  late  danger  and  his  actual  state,  and  began  to 
make  faint  inquiries  for  those  who  he  was  well  assured 
had  been  kindly  concerned  about  him,  I  did  not  feel 
myself  justified  in  withholding  from  him  the  know- 
ledge, that  his  friend  Mr.  Melcomb  had  been  among 
the  most  anxious  of  the  daily  inquirers.  Reluctantly 
I  pronounced  the  name — and  fearfully  awaited  the 
remark  or  request  it  might  call  forth.  But  it  was 
heard  in  silence — only  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  an  almost 
imperceptible  motion  of  the  lips — and  after  a  moment, 
the  invalid  half  turned  round  upon  his  pillow,  softly 
murmuring  to  himself,  'Poor  Melcomb!  it  is  all  over 
now  ;  and  then,  as  if  exhausted  by  this  feeble  effort, 
he  closed  his  eyes,  and  spoke  no  more  for  hours. 

"  Neither,  for  many  days,  did  he  renew  the  subject, 
which  I  by  no  means  felt  it  incumbent  on  me  to  re- 
mind him  of,  though  Mr.  Melcomb  began  to  plead 
with  increased  urgency  for  admittance  to  his  friend's 
sick  chamber. 

"  Our  medical  advisers,  however,  (having  neces- 
sarily been  made  aware  of  Herbert's  peculiar  circum- 
stances,) declared  unhesitatingly,  their  opinion  that 
strong  and  long  continued  over-excitement  and  agi- 
tation of  mind,  acting  on  a  most  excitable  con- 
stitution, had  brought  on  the  so  nearly  fatal  crisis  ; 
and  that  his  life  and  reason  still  hung  in  such  un- 

D 


30  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

even  balance,  that  the  slightest  jar  might  be  partially 
or  wholly  fatal.  '  Let  him,'  they  said,  '  see  no  one 
but  yourself,  and  his  worthy  old  tutor  who  has  shared 
your  anxious  task,  during  the  short  remainder  of 
his  present  stay  at  Cambridge — and  the  moment  he 
can  be  moved  with  safety,  take  him  back  with  you  to 
the  home  of  his  youth,  and  keep  him  there — far  from 
this  place  and  from  his  late  associates — until  he  shall 
at  least  have  recovered  as  much  physical  health  as  may 
be  accompanied,  we  will  hope,  by  a  moral  tone  less 
morbidly  liable  than  at  present  to  injurious  influence.' 

"The  first  part  of  this  friendly  advice  I  cautiously 
communicated  to  the  dear  patient,  and  unspeakably 
was  my  mind  relieved  when  he  calmly  replied,  after  a 
pause  of  deep  reflection — '  Be  it  so,  my  dear  aunt 
Tell  this  to  Melcomb.  Tell  him  it  may  be  better  we 
should  NOT  MEET  NOW.  Hereafter — if  my  life  should 
be  prolonged  — but  not  now — not  yet. — Tell  him  he 
shall  hear  from  me  when  I  can  guide  a  pen  firmly, 
and  write  calmly — and  till  then,  and  for  ever — God 
bless  him  !' 

"  We  were  at  length  permitted  to  depart,  and  by 
short  and  slow  stages  our  dear  charge  was  safely  con- 
veyed to  Merivale,  and  I  had  the  comfort  of  seeing 
him  once  more  established  in  our  pleasant  home.  Still 
so  languid  and  enfeebled  as  to  require  support  in  his  few 
steps  from  the  carriage  to  the  hall  door,  he  stopt  on 
the  familiar  threshold,  and  looked  about  him  with  an 
expression  so  peculiar,  so  made  up  of  quiet  gladness 
and  gratitude,  and  other  thoughts,  not  of  this  world 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  31 

surely,  that  it  struck  to  my  heart  a  shuddering  con- 
sciousness of  the  feelings  and  forebodings  then  passing 
in  his,  and  the  words  with  which  I  would  have  wel- 
comed him  home  again,  died  inaudible  on  my  lips. 

"  So  tedious  and  almost  imperceptible  was  his 
progress  towards  recovery,  that  I  should  scarcely  have 
ascertained  it,  but  by  comparison  of  its  weekly  stages ; 
from  his  first  removal  from  the  couch  in  his  own  dress- 
ing room  to  that  in  my  boudoir  for  a  few  afternoon 
hours,  to  his  re-establishment  at  his  favourite  bay  win- 
dow in  the  library  and  general  resumption  of  all  his 
in-door  habits.  The  regaining  of  farther  liberty  was 
still,  we  saw,  to  be  a  work  of  time,  and  the  patient 
invalid  murmured  not  that  his  enjoyment  of  out-door 
exercise  was  long  restricted  to  carriage  airings  and  a 
few  turns  at  intervals  on  the  broad  gravel  walk  under 
our  south  windows. 

"  As  the  summer  advanced,  however — the  last  year's 
summer — his  amendment  more  visibly  progressed, 
and  I  should  have  looked  forward  with  sanguine  ex- 
pectation to  his  perfect  restoration,  but  for  a  mysterious 
something — an  indefinable  change  in  his  general 
manner — in  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  and 
even  in  the  tone  of  his  voice — which  filled  me  with 
vague  uneasiness,  and  fears  I  scarcely  dared  to  analyze. 

"  Mild  and  thoughtful  had  been  at  all  times  my 
Herbert's  character,  but  innocently  cheerful  too,  and 
enthusiastically  ardent  in  all  his  favourite  pursuits — 
and  it  had  been  his  delight  especially  to  talk  over  with 
me  (his  confidant  from  childhood)  all  his  hopes  of  hap- 


32  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

piness  and  usefulness  in  that  station  of  life  which  had 
been  so  entirely  the  selection  of  his  heart  and  judg- 
ment. From  the  period  of  our  return  home  he  never 
on  any  occasion  reverted  to  the  subject,  or  made  allu- 
sion to  his  earthly  future  ;  and  if  any  observation  in 
reference  to  it  was  made  by  myself  or  others,  he  either 
eluded  it  by  some  slight  vague  answer,  or  let  it  pass 
unnoticed,  but  by  the  shade  of  deeper  seriousness  which 
at  such  times  fell  on  his  thoughtful  brow,  and  by  a 
faint  and  sickly  smile  I  now  and  then  detected  on  his 
pale  lips — perceptible  perhaps  to  myself  only ;  but  how 
keen  is  the  eye  of  anxious  tenderness !  Neither  did 
he  voluntarily  take  part  in  any  general  conversational 
topics  or  discussion  of  passing  events,  whether  of  local 
or  national  interest.  He  seemed  like  one  who,  having 
no  part  to  play  on  life's  busy  stage,  desired  as  much 
as  possible  to  shut  out  even  its  distant  murmurs,  and 
to  take  no  cognisance  of  t  chance  or  change,'  beyond 
the  circle  of  his  own  home  and  the  world  of  his  own 
heart.  Within  that  small  circle  he  had  become  more 
and  more  endeared  to  every  living  being  during  the 
season  of  his  protracted  feebleness  and  dependence  ; 
so  beautiful  and  touching  was  his  heavenly  sweetness 
of  temper,  his  unalterable  patience  and  his  affectionate 
gratitude  for  every  little  attention  or  required  service 
rendered  to  him  by  myself,  his  kind  old  tutor,  or  the 
faithful  servants  who  had  lived  with  me  before  his 
birth,  and  had  taken  their  part  in  the  care  of  himself  and 
his  little  sister,  when  the  infant  orphans  were  brought 
from  the  house  of  mourning  and  death  to  the  shelter 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  33 

of  my  roof,  in  prattling  unconsciousness  of  their  irre- 
parable loss. 

"  For  each  and  every  one  of  those  humble  friends 
Herbert  had  ever  a  kind  word  or  smile,  a  grateful  ex- 
pression, or  some  familiar  question  when  they  ap- 
proached him,  even  with  that  officiousness  of  over- 
anxiety  so  trying  to  irritable  invalids  ;  and  for  my 
sake,  he  would  at  all  times  throw  aside  his  book,  or 
rouse  himself  from  his  deepest  abstractions — :but  it 
was  evident  he  made  the  effort  for  my  sake  only,  and 
that  the  solitary  musings  to  which  he  had  been  ever 
addicted  were  become  the  cherished  and  abiding  habit 
of  his  mind. 

"  Often  have  I  sat  for  hours,  ostensibly  occupied 
with  my  book  or  needlework,  but  in  reality  watching 
the  varying  expression  of  his  countenance,  as  he  lay 
back  in  his  large  reading-chair  in  the  library  window 
— an  open  volume  in  his  hands,  but  his  eyes  seldom 
directed  to  its  pages,  or  apparently  fixed  on  any  ex- 
ternal object,  except  that,  when  they  sometimes  wan- 
dered to  the  scene  without,  a  moist  film  would  gather 
over  the  dark  blue  orbs,  and,  after  closing  them  for  a 
few  moments,  their  long  black  lashes  would  be  fringed 
with  tears — ah !  with  what  feelings  have  I  watched 
that  eloquent  silence — how  fearfully  have  I  conjectured 
the  thoughts  with  which  he  had  been  contemplating 
the  scene  of  his  earliest  pleasures.  Had  they  been  oc- 
cupied solely  with  associations  of  the  past?  the  memory 
of  his  sweet  sister  and  her  foreign  grave  ?  or  mingled 
with  such  feelings  as  cause  the  eye  to  linger  fondly 
D  2 


34  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

on  objects  it  shall  not  long  behold  ?  I  shrank  from 
my  own  thoughts;  and,  after  all,  I  believed,  I  hoped, 
he  was  doing  well,  and  no  dreaded,  well-known 
symptom  had  yet  warned  me  of  his  real  danger.  But 
this  poor  hope,  this  almost  wilful  delusion,  was  soon 
to  be  withdrawn,  and  for  ever.  As  yet,  I  had  not  ac- 
quired courage  closely  to  question  Herbert's  skilful 
and  attentive  medical  adviser.  But  his  visits,  I  ob- 
served, were  longer  and  more  frequent ;  and  methought 
there  was  a  shade  of  deeper  seriousness  upon  his  coun- 
tenance after  those  lengthened  conferences.  '  I  will 
speak  to  him — I  will  question  him  to-morrow'  was, 
day  after  day,  my  self-engagement ;  t  but,  after  all, 
there  can  be  no  serious  alteration  for  the  worse.  He 
does  not  lose  strength — he  has  no  cough/  was  the 
miserable  sophistry  with  which,  from  day  to  day,  I 
still  protracted  my  inquiry. 

"Since  our  return  home  from  Cambridge,  Herbert 
had  received  two  letters  from  his  friend  Mr.  Melcomb. 
He  had  read,  and  re-read  them,  with  evidently  deep 
interest ;  for  during  the  perusal  the  faint  colour  of  his 
cheek  would  come  and  go,  and  he  would  sigh  and 
shake  his  head,  murmuring  to  himself  inaudible  words. 
I  observed  this  emotion  with  no  little  anxiety,  but  was 
scarcely  more  relieved  than  surprised  when  it  became 
evident  that  he  was  in  no  haste  at  least  to  answer  these 
agitating  communications.  At  last,  on  my  return  from 
a  round  of  country  visits,  I  found  him  one  morning  in 
the  act  of  sealing  letters,  one  of  which  was  directed  to 
his  friend. 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  35 

"  He  seemed  exhausted,  as  if  by  an  unusual  effort, 
and  said  faintly  as  he  pushed  the  letters  from  him— 
'  Thank  God,  it  is  written  !  My  poor  Melcomb  !' — 
There  had  always  been  a  sort  of  restraint  between  us 
on  the  subject  of  this  friendship,  and  Herbert  had 
never,  since  his  return,  named  Melcomb  to  me  ;  but 
now,  raising  his  eyes  to  mine,  after  that  short  soli- 
loquy, he  said,  as  if  inviting  my  attention — 'You  could 
not  but  like  Melcomb,  my  dear  aunt,  even  for  the 
little  you  saw  of  him  at  Cambridge.  You  must  have 
loved  him,  had  you  known  him  as  I  do.'  I  freely 
acknowledged  the  favourable  impression  made  on  me 
by  his  friend's  engaging  manners  and  evident  powers 
of  mind,  at  the  same  time  cautiously  adverting  to 
those  characteristic  peculiarities  of  style  and  expression 
which,even  in  the  short  time  we  were  together, afforded 
me  sufficient  corroboration  of  the  reports  which  had  re- 
presented him  to  be  a  dangerous  intimate  for  one  so 
inexperienced — so  enthusiastic  and  warm-hearted  as 
my  dear  Herbert. 

"  He  sighed,  and  for  a  moment  seemed  lost  in 
thought.  Then  again,  looking  up  at  me,  he  rejoined, 
t  Perhaps  you  was  right,  my  dear  aunt — my  more  than 
mother !  You  have  known  your  poor  Herbert  long 
and  well — the  idle  dreamer — the  fond  visionary  ! 
And  yet  before  I  went  to  Cambridge,  and  for  some 
time  afterwards,  I  believe  I  was  for  a  time  in  the  safe 
and  straight  path.  My  poor  Melcomb!  he  loved  me 
sincerely,  and  yet  I  was  so  much  his  inferior  in  every 
thing.  His  views  were  so  beautiful — so  holy — so 


36  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

single — so  self-sacrificing!  all  I  had  previously  enter- 
tained appeared  to  me  so  poor,  and  cold,  and  selfish 
on  comparison — and  yet,  on  some  points,  his  were 
awful  tenets!  I  could  neither  entirely  embrace,  nor 
satisfy  myself  they  were  altogether  erroneous.  The 
struggle  was  too  hard  for  this  poor  head  and  this  weak 
frame  of  mine,  and  both  gave  way.— But,  thank  God/ 
he  continued,  after  a  pause  of  deep  emotion/ all  is  well 
with  me  now — all  is  peace  !  In  that  first  portion  of 
my  tedious  convalescence,  during  which  the  mental 
powers  as  well  as  the  physical  were,  to  all  appearance, 
reduced  to  a  state  of  perfect  inanition,  while  I  lay  in  . 
seeming  unconsciousness  of  all  external  things,  my 
mind  was  dealing  with  itself,  or  rather  the  spirit  of 
truth  and  love  was  at  work  within  me,  rebuking,  chas- 
tening, composing,  healing,  and  I  awoke  from  that 
blessed  trance  with  a  determination  to  shun  for  the 
future  all  unprofitable  inquiries  into  mysteries  too 
deep  and  high  for  human  comprehension  —  to  lay 
aside  (at  least  for  a  long  season),  all  works  of  contro- 
versional  divinity,  and  to  turn  in  all  my  doubts  and 
difficulties  to  this  book  only — this  blessed  Book!'  and, 
with  an  upward  glance  of  adoring  gratitude,  he  let  fall 
his  out-spread  hand  on  the  Bible  which  lay  beside  his 
writing-desk. 

"There  was  that  in  the  solemn  fervour  of  his  looks 
and  language  which  awed  and  calmed,  while  it  affected 
me  profoundly, and  I  could  only  lean  forward  in  silence, 
and  press  my  lips  to  the  thin  pale  hand  that  rested 
on  the  sacred  volume  ;  but  my  dear  Herbert  saw,  as  I 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  37 

lifted  up  my  face,  that  it  was  wet  with  tears.  Then  it 
was  that,  drawing  his  chair  close  to  mine  and  taking 
my  hand  in  both  his,  he  began  his  task  of  tender  pre- 
paration. For  what !  Oh,  Heavens !  the  agony  of  that 
moment !  What  words,  however  cautious,  could  com- 
municate, without  piercing  my  very  heart,  the  know- 
ledge that  his  days  were  numbered — that  for  many 
weeks  the  dreaded  disease  had  declared  itself  by  such 
symptoms  as,  being  made  known  to  our  anxious  medi- 
cal friend,  had  caused  that  ominous  shade  of  increased 
seriousness  in  his  kind  face,  which  I  had  read  so  fear- 
fully, but  shrank  from  interpreting. 

"'It  is  even  so,  my  aunt/  said  the  beloved  one, 
when  I  regained  sufficient  self-command  to  control 
the  outward  token  of  anguish.  'It  is  even  so  ;  and  al- 
ready, as  you  may  have  observed,  I  have  bid  farewell 
to  the  world  :  and  now,  but  for  the  pain  of  leaving  you, 
I  could  rejoice  that  my  hour  is  nigh.  And  yet — 
dreamer  that  I  am  ! — I  had  looked  forward  to  many 
sweet  and  pleasant  passages  in  this  life  !  To  many  days 
of  faithful  ministration  and  varied  usefulness  in  my 
appointed  station.  To  some  dear  future  home  among 
those  I  was  leading  heavenward,  shared  perhaps  by 
....  but  his  will  be  done.  Earthly  love  might 
have  more  than  divided  this  weak  heart  with  him, 
whose  right  is  all :  Or  again,  the  infirm  mind  might 
have  wandered  into  dangerous  paths,  and  the  excitable 
spirit  have  been  deluded  by  "vain  imaginings."  It  is 
in  mercy  that  I  am  called  thus  early  to  rejoin  my 
sweet  sister.'  And  his  voice  faltered  as  he  uttered 


38  THE   EARLY    CALLED. 

the  last  words,  and  sank  into  a  low  inward  articulation, 
as  if  replying  to  his  own  thoughts,  when  he  continued, 
after  a  moment's  pause — 'And  what  matters  it  that 
our  dust  may  not  mingle  in  the  same  grave,  when  the 
spirit  shall  be  reunited  in  eternity  ?' 

"He  had  let  fall  my  hand  while  uttering  the  last 
sentence,  and  sank  back  in  his  chair  with  closed  eyes 
— as  if  for  the  moment  abstracted  from  all  conscious- 
ness of  my  presence  and  of  the  painful  task  he  had  un- 
dertaken. But  recalled  to  a  sense  of  my  distress  by 
the  sound  of  a  half  suppressed  sob,  he  started  from  his 
reclining  posture,  and  with  a  tender  and  almost  a  cheer- 
ful smile,  again  took  my  hand,  and  affectionately  kiss- 
ing it,  said — 'But,  beloved  aunt!  though  I  thought  it 
best  to  acquaint  you  myself  with  what  you  could  not 
have  remained  in  ignorance  of  much  longer,  I  have  not 
told  you  that  the  time  of  our  separation  is  immediately 
at  hand  :  Many,  many  months — nay  longer  still — you 
may  have  to  watch  over  the  charge  you  will  never  feel 
to  be  a  burden.  Let  us  pass  together  my  remaining 
portion  of  time  like  friends  who  are  preparing  to  part 
but  for  a  season  ;  the  one  for  another  hemisphere  to 
make  ready  for  the  joyful  coming  of  her  who  was  left 
behind.  You  will  take  comfort  and  support  yourself 
for  my  sake,  and  God  will  support  us  both/ 

"  I  felt  that  he  was  right — that  for  his  sake  I  must 
not  yield  myself  up  to  selfish  sorrow  :  there  would  be 
much  to  do  and  to  suffer,  and  I  must  brace  myself  for 
the  appointed  trial.  I  sought  the  solitude  of  my  cham- 
ber and  was,  *  still'  but  not  alone: — and  when  my  dear 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  39 

Herbert  and  I  met  again  in  the  drawing-room  before 
dinner,  I  was  able  to  meet  his  look  of  kind  solicitude 
with  one  which  assured  him  of  my  regained  compo- 
sure. 

"My  next  day's  conference  with  Kendrick  (our 
medical  friend)  too  fully  confirmed  Herbert's  commu- 
nication. But  on  my  pressing  him  on  the  subject — 
alas !  the  heart-sickening  forlorn  hope — of  change  of 
air — of  climate — he  gave  his  ready  acquiescence  to  our 
removal  for  the  approaching  winter  to  some  warm 
sheltered  station  on  our  own  sea  coast — Herbert  having 
premised  his  unconquerable  repugnance  to  leave  Eng- 
land. 

"I  fear  that  if  the  dear  being  had  been  left  to  the 
guidance  of  his  own  wishes,  he  would  thankfully  have 
chosen  to  remain  at  Merivale — to  dwell  with  his  last 
looks  on  familiar  objects  and  endeared  scenes,  and  en- 
joying that  sacredness  of  repose,  inviolate  only  in  the 
sanctuary  of  Home.  But  not  for  a  moment  did  he 
contest  the  point  on  which  he  saw  my  trembling 
anxiety.  He  faintly  smiled  indeed  when  I  ventured 
to  hint  at  hopes  beyond  the  mere  procrastination  of  the 
dreaded  event;  but  that  he  admitted  might  (God  will- 
ing) be  effected  by  the  proposed  plan,  and  he  gave  his 
cheerful  assent  for  our  immediate  departure,  the  autumn 
being  already  far  advanced,  for  Torquay,  which  was 
the  place  fixed  on  for  our  winter  sojourn. 

"  My  old  butler,  Johnson,  preceded  us,  to  engage  a 
habitation;  and  make  suitable  arrangements  for  the  par- 
ticular accommodation  and  comfort  of  my  dear  invalid, 


40  THE    EARLY   CALLED. 

and  we  had  every  reason,  on  our  arrival,  to  be  satisfied 
with  the  result  of  his  mission. 

"He  had  taken  for  us  one  of  two  houses,  built  under 
the  shelter  of  a  wall  of  living  rock,  which  by  its  gentle 
curvature  completely  protected  them  from  the  north 
and  east,  and  partly  from  even  the  western  breezes, 
while  its  whole  front  lay  open  to  the  sunny  south ;  the 
silver  sands,  to  which  a  grass  slope  descended  from 
the  broad  terrace-walk  which  ran  along  the  veranda, 
and  the  deep  blue  sea,  glancing  with  innumerable 
sails. 

"We  reached  our -marine  villa  towards  the  close  of 
a  beautiful  September  afternoon ;  and  Herbert,  who 
had  borne  the  journey  wonderfully  well,  looked  round 
him,  as  we  took  possession,  with  such  sweet  content- 
ment in  his  face,  as  communicated  to  my  heart  a  sense 
of  gladness  that  would  have  been  almost  hope,  if  I  had 
dared  to  encourage  the  fond  whisperer. 

"Very  soon  my  dear  invalid  was  seated  at  one  of 
the  French  windows,  which  opened  into  the  broad 
veranda  throughout  the  length  of  two  adjoining  rooms. 

"The  late  autumn  noon  was  still  and  warm  as  a 
bright  summer  evening  ;  and  the  measured  plash  of 
the  long  ridgy  waves,  as  they  stole  softly  over  the 
glittering  sands,  and  sluggishly  retired,  came  pleasantly 
upon  the  traveller's  ear,  still  ringing  with  the  sound  of 
grinding  wheels  and  clattering  hoofs. 

"The  house  taken  for  us  was  only  let  occasionally 
by  the  gentleman  whose  property  it  was,  and  the  ve- 
randa was  tastefully  decorated  with  fine  vases  and 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  41* 

beautiful  exotics.  Close  to  the  open  window,  at  which 
Herbert  had  seated  himself,  stood  a  noble  orange  tree, 
gorgeous  with  golden  fruit  and  snowy  blossoms.  Of 
these,  a  few  petals  were  wafted  towards  him  by  a 
wandering  breeze,  and  as  their  odour  stole  over  his 
senses,  I  saw  his  countenance  change,  and  his  eyes  fill 
with  tears.  I  drew  near,  and  kissed  his  forehead  in 
silence,  but  our  eyes  met,  and  we  needed  not  to  tell 
each  other  to  what  far  distant  land  our  thoughts  had 
wandered. 

"  Looking  earnestly  for  a  moment  on  a  small  gold 
hoop  which  encircled  the  little  finger  of  his  left  hand, 
he  pressed  his  lips  to  it,  and  said, { I  took  this  ring  from 
her  dead  finger — our  mother's  wedding  ring — let  it 
not  be  withdrawn  from  mine,  for  I  am  the  last  of  my 
race.  Living,  I  would  never  have  parted  with  it  but 

for  one  purpose Do  you  know,  my  dear 

aunt,'  he  continued,  with  a  quick  inflection  of  voice, 
as  he  looked  up  half-smiling  in  my  face,  '  I  had  the 
strangest  dream  about  this  ring  the  night  before  we 
left  Merivale.  One  of  my  "poetic  visions"  you  would 
call  it,  and  truth  to  tell,  I  had  been  recreating  that 
evening  with  my  favourite  Thalaba.  Well,  you  shall 
hear  as  how  in  this  my  dream  I  found  myself  (how 
brought  thither  I  know  not)  in  the  chancel  of  a  strange 
church,  all  hung  with  black,  and  so  dimly  lighted,  that 
nothing  was  distinctly  visible  but  the  altar,  on  which 
flamed  two  of  those  immense  wax  tapers  which  are 
used  in  the  pageant  of  a  corpse  lying  in  state.  The 
table  was  spread  as  for  a  solemn  ceremony,  and  before 


42  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

it,  fronting  the  rails,  stood  a  tall  figure,  attired  rather 
as  a  monk  than  as  a  Protestant  clergyman,  for  he  wore 
a  loose  black  robe,  with  a  hood  or  eowl,  which  was 
drawn  over  his  head  and  face.  But,  open  in  his  hands, 
was  our  book  of  Common  Prayer,  from  which,  in  a 
voice  so  deep  and  hollow,  that  it  sounded  as  if  ascend- 
ing from  the  vaults  beneath,  he  was  reading,  what  I 
knew  by  some  mysterious  perception  not  connected 
with  the  sense  of  hearing,  to  be  the  marriage  ceremony, 
and  though  unconscious  how  all  had  come  to  pass,  I 
felt  neither  surprise  nor  perplexity  at  the  circumstances 
in  which  I  found  myself,  kneeling  on  the  altar  steps 
beside  a  female  figure,  covered  from  head  to  foot  with 
a  thick  white  veil.  I  was  sensible  that  the  relation  in 
which  we  thus  knelt  together  was  that  of  bridegroom 
and  bride,  but  when  I  stretched  forth  my  hand,  by  a 
sort  of  mechanical  impulse,  to  take  hers  as  the  rite 
proceeded,  I  felt  no  horror  at  the  contact,  though  the 
hand  which  met  mine  from  beneath  the  folds  of  the 
thick  veil  was  cold  and  clammy  like  that  of  a  corpse, 
and  the  nails  of  the  small  taper  fingers  were  purpled 
and  shrunken.  Well,  dear  aunt,  you  shudder,  but  I 
did  not,  nor  shrank  from  my  veiled  bride.  There  were 
shadowy  forms  near  us — behind  and  oa  either  side — 
but  I  knew  not  by  whom  that  chilly  hand  was  placed  in 
mine,  nor  do  I  remember  hearing  distinctly  the  solemn 
question,  nor  articulating  the  affirmative,  "I  will." 
But  somehow  the  assent  was  asked  and  given  on  either 
part,  and  when  the  time  came  for  placing  the  ring  on 
the  bride's  finger,  I  transferred  to  it  this  very  ring 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  43 

drawn  from  my  own — my  mother's  wedding-ring — 
no  sooner  was  the  pledge  given,  than  a  bell  tolled,  (a 
funeral  bell,)  the  tapers  flared  up  to  the  vaulted  roof, 
and  the  officiating  priest  stood  before  us  disrobed  of 
his  sable  vestments.  It  was  Azrael,  the  Angel  of 
Death.'  " 


CHAPTER  II. 


"  Youth,  and  the  opening  Rose, 

May  look  like  things  too  lovely  for  decay, 
And  smile  at  thee.    But  thou  art  not  of  those 
Who  wait  the  ripened  bloom  to  seize  thy  prey." 

MRS.  HEMANS. 


"  OUR  house  and  the  adjoining  one — in  fact,  a  con- 
tinuation of  ours,  and  standing  in  the  same  enclosure — 
had  been  so  constructed  by  the  gentleman  whose  pro- 
perty they  were,  for  the  accommodation  of  his  own 
family  and  that  of  a  married  daughter.  A  slight 
partition  of  trellis-work,  covered  with  ivy  and  ever- 
blowing  roses,  divided  the  grass-slope  in  front  of  the 
houses  ;  but  a  door  of  communication,  opening  from 
the  end  of  our  verandah  into  the  next,  had  been  made 
no  doubt  to  facilitate  the  intercourse  of  the  kindred 
households. 

"  Some  straggling  tendrils  of  ivy  had  already  crept 
over  the  bolts  and  lock  of  the  closed  door,  as  if  to  in- 
terpose more  effectually  between  the  neighbours,  now 
strangers  to  each  other  ;  for  the  sound  of  steps  and 
voices  on  the  other  side  of  the  temporary  barrier  soon 
made  us  aware  that  we  had  neighbours,  and  the  dis- 
covery (so  made)  was  not  particularly  agreeable  ;  but 
we  were  not  loud  talkers,  nor  likely  to  take  much 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  45 

heed  of  that  which  concerned  us  not,  so  made  a  merit 
of  necessity,  and  thought  light  of  the  annoyance. 

"  I  was  more  disturbed,  however,  at  hearing  from 
my  maid,  while  she  assisted  me  in  undressing,  that  one 
of  our  near  neighbours  was  a  young  lady  dying  of  con- 
sumption, attended  by  a  most  distressing  cough,  that 
symptom  so  mercifully  lightened  in  my  dear  Herbert's 
case.  But  we  could  not  fail  to  hear  this  poor  thing 
from  our  verandah  ;  and  even  in  the  house  the  partition 
wall  might  not  be  substantial  enough  to  exclude  sound. 
<  And  it  will  be  a  perpetual  knell/  was  my  sad  soli- 
loquy,— '  full  of  my  Herbert's  doom.  But  it  will  strike 
on  my  heart  only — to  him  death  comes  not  clothed 
in  terrors.' 

"  My  apprehensions  were  verified  in  the  course  of 
the  next  morning — a  warm  and  lovely  one,  which 
enabled  Herbert  to  stroll  down  often  to  the  sands,  and 
have  his  chair  placed  in  the  verandah.  Our  neigh- 
bours were  apparently  enjoying  the  bright  balmy  day 
in  the  same  manner  with  ourselves,  for  we  heard  voices 
on  their  side  the  partition,  and  soon,  too  soon,  the 
sound  of  that  peculiar  cough  attracted  Herbert's  notice. 
He  looked  at  me  with  a  face  of  sad  meaning,  and 
said, '  My  servant  told  me  this  morning  that  we  had 
three  ladies  for  our  neighbours — a  mother  and  her  two 
daughters — and  that  of  the  latter,  one  was  an  invalid. 
Poor  thing!  that  sound  tells  the  nature  of  her  malady. 
How  favoured  have  I  been  hitherto,  dear  aunt !  so 
little  of  that  distressing  symptom  attached  to  my  com- 
plaint, and  my  sweet  sister  had  to  endure  so  much!' 
E  2 


46  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

"  Except  the  frequent  recurrence  of  that  painful 
sound,  we  heard  little  more  than  low  murmurs  on  the 
other  side  ;  and  should  scarce  have  heeded  the  quiet 
undertone,  but  that  now  and  then  a  young  clear  voice 
was  heard  above  it,  breaking  out,  in  the  innocent  glee 
of  childhood,  into  a  merry  laugh,  or  snatches  of  song, 
or  quick  exclamation. 

"'That  sound  cheers  one's  heart,  like  the  song  of 
the  sky-lark/  was  Herbert's  observation,  after  one  of 
those  outbursts  of  exuberant  gladness  ;  for  he  delighted 
in  children,  and,  when  in  health,  had  ever  been  a 
favourite  playfellow  among  them  ;  but  he  started  and 
changed  colour  when  another  voice — sweet,  low,  one 
of  very  peculiar  intonation — was  heard  addressing 
some  words  to  the  younger  speaker,  close  to  the  door 
of  communication. 

"  'What  a  remarkable  similarity,'  he  said,  as  we 
turned  to  retrace  our  sauntering  steps  towards  the  far- 
ther end  of  our  sheltered  terrace  ; — '  I  never  heard 
but  one  voice  like  that,  and  it  was  poor  Melcomb's  ;' 
and,  as  was  ever  the  case  when  any  reference  occurred 
to  his  college  friend,  a  shade  gathered  over  his  brow, 
and  he  fell  into  a  mood  of  sad  abstraction. 

"  '  You  have  not  heard  from  Mr.  Melcomb  in  answer 
to  your  last  letter,  have  you,  dear  Herbert?'  I  inquir- 
ed, less  from  a  motive  of  curiosity,  than  with  a  view  of 
drawing  him  from  his  melancholy  reverie. 

'"No ;  and  it  surprises  and  pains  me  that  I  have  not. 
This  was  about  the  time  he  purposed  taking  his  de- 
parture from  England,  probably  for  ever ;  but  surely 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  47 

he  would  not,  could  not  leave  it  without  a  farewell 
line  to  me,  grievously  as  I  fear  he  is  disappointed  in 
me.' 

"'How  distressing  to  Mr.  Melcomb's  family  and 
connexions/  I  ventured  to  remark,  'must  have  been 
the  change  of  his  religious  views,  and  of  his  plans  and 
prospects  in  consequence  of  that  change.' 

"'Yes.  I  believe  his  mother,  his  only  surviving 
parent,  was  much  disturbed  by  his  determination  ;  and 
his  uncle,  from  whom  he  had  large  expectations,  be- 
sides the  church  preferment  intended  for  him,  has,  I 
fear,  gone  the  length  of  renouncing  him.  "All  have 
cast  me  off,"  I  have  heard  him  say,  yielding  for  a  mo- 
ment to  natural  weakness,  "all  but  my  sweet  sister,  my 
poor  Agnes ;  and  she  is  scarcely  a  creature  of  this  earth, 
and  will  not  long  sojourn  here."  You  will  laugh,  my 
dear  aunt,  but  I  could  fancy  that  voice  was  the  voice 
of  Melcomb's  sister,  if,  unfortunately  for  the  construc- 
tion of  the  romance  I  might  build  upon  that  conjecture, 
we  had  not  heard  that  our  neighbours  are  named  Har- 
lowe.  No  conjuring  Harlowe  into  Melcomb ;  so  my 
ingenious  structure  that  might  be,  has  not  an  inch  of 
ground  to  stand  on,  and  in  sober  sadness  I  do  not  wish 
it  otherwise.  I  could  not  desire  to  identify  Melcomb's 
beloved  sister  with  that  poor  girl,  whose  hollow  cough 
is  a  sound  of  such  ill  omen.' 

"Secretly  I  blessed  God  that  the  dire  portent  had 
but  slightly  manifested  itself  in  the  case  of  the  dear 
speaker ;  and,  with  a  trembling  thankfulness  I  dared 
not  call  hope,  I  thanked  Him  for  the  degree  of  renova- 


48  TUB    EARLY    CALLED. 

tion  evident  in  Herbert's  general  apperance  since  our 
departure  from  Merivale. 

"-He  passed  great  part  of  that  day  in  the  open  air, 
making  frequent  sauntering  excursions  down  the  easy 
slope  which  led  from  our  house  to  the  margin  of  the 
glittering  sands,  and  watching  with  interest  and  enjoy- 
ment the  many  glancing  sails  of  small  skiifs  and  fishing 
boats;  and  the  slow  and  regular  flux  and  reflux  of  the 
long  and  gently  heaving  waves ;  stooping  now  to  pick 
up  a  shell  or  pebble,  brilliant  with  its  still  wet  varnish 
from  the  retiring  tide,  or  a  sea-weed  of  peculiarly  vivid 
hue  or  elegant  form.  Our  youngest  neighbour,  a  little 
girl,  seemingly  about  eight  years  old,  had  also  found 
her  way  down  to  those  sunny  sands,  so  tempting  and 
delightful  to  contemplative  as  well  as  infant  minds, 
with  their  rich  and  ever-shifting  store  of  marine  trea- 
sures. And  very  soon  I  observed  the  collectors 
gradually  drawing  together,  and  in  short  time  that  a 
friendly  intercouse  was  fairly  established  between 
them.  It  was  not  without  inquietude  that  I  looked  at 
this  commencement  of  acquaintance  (as  it  was  likely 
to  prove)  between  our  two  families,  for  I  shrank  from 
the  idea  of  bringing  together  the  young  persons  so 
sadly  and  similarly  circumstanced.  But  these  thoughts 
were  of  course  confined  to  my  own  bosom,  and  when 
my  dear  invalid  came  back  to  me  with  his  smiling 
report  of  the  familiar  footing  on  which  he  already  stood 
with  the  'pretty  little  mermaid,'  as  he  called  his  new 
acquaintance,  I  forgot  every  thing  but  gladness  at  his 
apparent  pleasure. 


THE    EARLY    CALLED,  49 

"  'But  only  think,  my  dear  aunt/  he  continued, 
'  when  my  little  friend  left  me  just  now  with  the  basket 
I  had  helped  to  fill  with  weeds  and  shells,  she  told  me 
they  were  all  for  sister  Agnes,  who  was  not  yet  well 
enough  to  come  down  and  collect  for  herself- — only 
for  this  name  of  Harlowe  !' 

"While  he  was  yet  speaking,  the  door  opened,  and 
Johnson  entered  with  a  letter  addressed  to  Herbert, 
sent  in  with  Mrs.  Harlowe's  compliments,  and  a  civil 
note  from  that  lady  to  myself,  announcing  her  inten- 
tion of  calling  on  me  the  day  following,  should  the 
state  of  Mr.  Ross's  health  be  such  as  not  to  preclude 
me  from  receiving  visitors.  The  letter  addressed  to 
my  nephew,  she  had  just  received,  enclosed  in  one 
from  her  stfn-in-law,  Mr.  Melcomb. 

"  While  I  was  reading  Mrs.  Harlowe's  note,  and 
penning  my  reply,  my  poor  Herbert  had  broken  the 
seal  of  his  friend's  letter  with  a  trembling  hand,  and 
was  perusing  its  contents  with  a  degree  of  agitation, 
too  evident  in  the  varying  colour  of  his  cheek.  As 
he  read  on,  still  fixed  to  the  spot  where  he  had  received 
and  torn  open  that  deeply  interesting  letter,  tears 
began  to  trickle  slowly  from  beneath  his  long  eye- 
lashes ;  and,  as  if  conscious  of  his  visible  emotion,  he 
threw  himself  back  on  a  sofa  at  the  darker  end  of  the 
room,  shading  his  face  with  one  hand,  while  the  other 
shaking  as  if  in  an  ague  fit,  held  the  open  letter,  on 
which  his  attention  was  still  riveted.  I  respected  his 
feelings  too  much  to  break  in  on  them  by  question  or 
remark,  and  having  sealed  and  sent  away  my  note, 


50  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

I  quietly  withdrew  to  a  seat  just  without  the  window, 
from  whence,  however,  I  could  keep  him  still  in  sight, 
should  the  consequences  of  his  nervous  excitement 
call  for  active  assistance.  But  after  a  time,  having  read 
and  reread-,  and  mused  over  that  too  interesting  com- 
munication, he  let  it  falj,  still  open  in  the  hand  that 
held  it,  on  his  knee,  and  leaning  back  his  head  on  the 
sofa  cushions,  I  saw  that  his  dear  face  had  resumed  its 
expression  of.  serene  tranquillity,  though  the  bright 
flush  of  agitation  was  succeeded  by  unusual  paleness, 
with  which  his  closed  eyelids  and  marble  brow,  and 
seemingly  unbreathing  stillness,  combined  into  a  sem- 
blance so  startling,  that,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  I 
•could  no  longer  forbear  gently  drawing  near,  to  assure 
myself  that  the  beautiful  clay  still  retained  its  spiritual 
inhabitant.  Slight  as  was  the  sound  of  my  approach, 
it  roused  him  from  that  awful  trance,  and  lifting  up 
his  head,  he  looked  at  me  with  a  sad  faint  smile,  and 
said,  holding  towards  me  the  still  unfolded  letter, 
'  Take  this,  my  dear  aunt !  my  ever  kindest,  most 
indulgent  friend  !  I  have  no  reserves  from  you  ; 
and  when  you  have  read  what  my  poor  Melcomb 
writes,  you  Avill  love  him  almost  as  I  do,  and  perfectly 
comprehend  the  influence  such  a  mind  as  his  could 
not  fail  to  acquire  over  mine.  But  defer  reading  it 
till  you  are  alone.  I  shall  best  recover  myself  in  the 
stillness  of  my  chamber;  and,  by  the  help  of  a  few 
minutes'  stroll  on  the  sands  before  dinner,  shall  be 
quite  myself  again  by  that  time.' 

"So   saying,  he  withdrew  to  his  own  room,  and 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  51 

left  me  to  the  uninterrupted  perusal  of  a  letter,  which, 
before  it  was  half  finished,  had  bathed  my  face  with 
tears,  and  wellnigh  fulfilled  my  nephew's  prediction. 
I  felt,  and  acknowledged  to  myself,  that  between  two 
persons,  whose  characters  assimilated  so  remarkably 
in  many  essential  points  as  those  of  Melcomb  and 
Herbert,  it  would  have  been  extraordinary  and  unnatu- 
ral, if  acquaintance  had  not  quickly  ripened  into 
intimacy,  and  intimacy  into  strong  attachment. 

"In  each,  the  same  ardent,  enthusiastic  temperament 
— the  same  deeply  religious  feeling — the  same  purity 
and  singleness  of  heart — the  same  quick  and  fine 
perception  of  the  good  and  beautiful. 

u  It  would  have  been  wonderful  indeed  if  minds  so 
constituted,  and  hearts  so  well  in  unison,  had  not  been 
drawn  together  by  the  mysterious  bands  of  sympathy, 
even  from  the  first  hour  of  meeting — and  the  few 
years  by  which  Melcomb  was  senior  to  his  friend 
would  naturally  secure  to  the  former  that  influence 
and  ascendency  which  Herbert,  in  the  extreme  diffi- 
dence of  his  nature,  ascribed  to  moral  and  intellectual 
superiority.  'Yes,  I  must  have  loved  this  young 
enthusiast/  was  my  silent  acknowledgment  while 
reading  his  affecting  letter  ;  and  my  heart  smote  me 
for  having  at  one  time  imputed  to  him  a  portion  of 
that  pharisaical  pride  and  pretension  which  character- 
ise too  many  of  those,  who  ostentatiously  assume  to 
themselves  the  designation  of  ' serious  Christians.' 
Here  was  no  assumption  of  any  sort,  no  pretension  to 
superior  sanctity,  or  to  that  depth  of  self-abasement 


52  THE    EARLY   CALLED. 

under  which  pride  so  often  humbles  itself  that  it  may 
be  exalted  and  receive  praise  of  men.    Melcomb's  fare- 
well to  his  friend  was  in  the  highestdegree  touching  and 
solemn,  written  in  the  belief  that  (humanly  speaking) 
they  should  meet  no  more  in  this  world,  for  Herbert's 
letter  from  Merivale  had  apprised  Melcomb   of  his 
more  than  precarious  state.     After  dwelling  oh  the 
affecting   subject   with    all    the   tenderness   of  truest 
friendship,  and  all  the  hopefulness  of  Christian  faith, 
Melcomb  adverted  with  great  feeling  to  the  similar 
circumstances   in    which  (he    told   Herbert)    he  had 
lately  parted  from  his  sweet  sister,  the  daughter  of  his 
father  by  a  second  wife,  married  since  his  death  to  a 
gentleman  of  the  name  of  Harlowe,  and  again  widowed 
with  another  daughter  by  her  last  husband.      'It  is  a 
source  of  singular  satisfaction  to  me,  my  dearest  Her- 
bert !'  wrote  his  friend,  '  that  the  will  of  Providence 
should  so  have  ordered  your  ways,  and  those  of  my 
beloved  sister,  as  to  bring  you  so  near  together  in  this 
last  stage  of  your  earthly  pilgrimage,  that  I  do  hope 
you  may  yet  be  acquainted  with  each  other,  and  begin 
in  time  that  intercourse  which  may  be  renewed  and 
perfected  in  eternity.     It  has  been  a  lurking  wish  of 
mine — a  pleasant  day-dream — that  the  two  I  love  best 
on  earth  might  thus  be  brought  together — with  the 
memory  of  the  absent  one — weaving  our  friendship  as 
it  were — a  triple  chord   in  one — and  I  am  persuaded 
this  will  come  to  pass.     My  sister  and  my  friend  will 
meet  on  earth,  before  they  meet  in  heaven,  and  speak 
together   of  the  poor  missionary,  whose  prayers  for 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  53 

them  will  ascend  morning,  and  at  noonday,  and 
eventide — whether  from  the  vast  deserts  of  great 
waters,  or  of  burning  sands,  or  of  the  howling  wilder- 
ness; from  among  the  habitations  of  Christian  men, 
or  of  those  not  yet  visited  by  "  the  day  spring  from  on 
high,"  for  whose  sake  he  goes  a  voluntary  exile  from 
country,  home,  and  kindred.  But,  oh  Herbert!  I 
have  yet  to  impart  to  you  a  wish,  a  strong  desire, 
which  has  strengthened  in  my  heart  from  day  to  day, 
since  I  have  known  that  my  only  sister  and  my 
dearest  friend  might  possibly  be  brought  together 
under  circumstances  so  solemn,  so  affecting.  Herbert 
will  you,  if  life  and  power  are  so  far  extended  to  your- 
self, supply  to  my  Agnes,  in  her  hour  of  need,  the 
ministry  of  her  absent  brother,  whose  awful  sense  of 
a  paramount  duty  calling  him  hence,  might  have 
failed  to  sustain  his  purpose  had  he  been  aware,  before 
the  decisive  step  was  taken,  of  this  beloved  one's  ap- 
proaching change?  But  had  it  been  possible — justi- 
fiably possible  to  have  relinquished — or  even  postpond 
my  departure,  I  should  not  have  been  permitted  to 
take  my  faithful  stand  beside  the  couch  of  my  dying 
sister.  The  mother  of  my  Agnes  (whose  change  of 
conduct  towards  me  can  never  cancel  the  debt  of  grati- 
tude I  owe  her  for  years  of  maternal  care  and  kindness) 
has  misjudged  her  husband's  son,  and  strongly  depre- 
cating his  influence  over  her  daughter's  mind,  dreads 
it,  more  especially  under  present  circumstances;  for 
alas !  in  mistaken  fondness  for  her  darling  child,  she 
withholds  from  her,  and  almost  conceals  from  herself, 


54  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

the  dangerous  nature  of  her  disease,  and  the  nearness 
of  that  change  which  cannot  be  long  protracted  by  the 
utmost  efforts  of  human  science.  0,  Herbert !  I  could 
fondly  hope  that  you  are  appointed  by  Providence 
(her  fellow-traveller  through  the  dark  valley)  to  pre- 
pare my  Agnes  for  the  awful  passage :  to  prepare — to 
calm — to  strengthen — to  encourage — to  comfort — not 
as  the  world  comforts,  speaking  of  peace  when  there  is 
no  peace — of  hope  when  there  is  no  hope — of  life 
temporal  to  one  on  the  verge  of  life  eternal. 

"'You  will  find  the  good  seed  sown  and  cherished 
in  that  meek,  loving  heart:  But  the  love  of  life  (for 
she  is  young  and  happy)  is  yet  strong  within  it,  and 
deluded  (as  you  are  not]  by  the  insidious  nature  of 
her  malady,  she  sees  not  the  beckoning  hand,  but 
dreams  of  distant  days,  and  even  earthly  reunion 
with  her  absent  brother,  while  he  well  knows  that  in 
this  world  he  shall  see  her  face  no  more. 

"'Oh  Herbert!  let  her  not  pass  away  thus  uncon- 
scious of  her  real  state.  False  and  fallacious  are  the 
pleas  of  erring  fondness  of  self-sparing  infirmity — 
that  the  youth  and  innocence  of  the  unconscious  victim 
are  sufficient  warrant  for  its  safe  passage  into  eternity 
— unwarned  and  thoughtless  of  impending  doom. 
Wo  be  to  those  who  lay  this  flattering  unction  to 
their  hearts,  and  take  upon  themselves — by  acting  on 
it — the  awful  responsibility.  Talk  not  to  Agnes  of 
her  pure  heart  and  sinless  life,  but  tell  her,  that  though 
all  are  guilty  before  God,  the  Son  of  God  died  for 
all,  and  that  in  Him,  and  through  Him,  for  all  who 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  55 

come  unto  Him  is  sure  salvation.  And,  Herbert ! 
that  all  are  free  to  come,  is  at  length  the  firm  and 
fixed  conviction  in  which  has  terminated  all  those 
distressing  doubts  by  which  your  friend's  mind  was 
for  a  long  season  agitated  and  perplexed,  and  for  a 
time,  indeed,  during  the  period  of  our  intimacy,  swayed 
to  an  opposite  conclusion.  I  thank  God,  my  friend, 
that  you  were  the  first  to  struggle  into  light,  from 
that  maze  of  error  in  which  I  had  nearly  been  the 
means  of  involving  you,  together  with  myself — and  in 
all  confidence,  I  commit  to  you  the  charge,  to  which 
I  am  forbidden  to  devote  myself.  Be  to  my  Agnes 
what  her  brother  would  have  been ;  her  awakener — 
her  guide — her  comforter — and  oh  !  far  more,  my 
Herbert !  her  companion  through  that  last  dark  strait 
of  time,  which  shall,  by  God's  grace,  conduct  you  both 
to  a  heaven  of  eternal  blessedness.' 

"There  was  much  more  in  Melcomb's  letter,  ad- 
dressed more  particularly  to  Herbert — many  affecting 
and  tender  passages ;  much  of  hope,  and  earnest  exor- 
tation,  and  of  the  outpouring  of  Christian  friendship, 
looking  beyond  the  grave  for  perfect  consummation. 
But  from  the  portion  I  have  read  to  you,  Mr.  Lind- 
say, you  will  readily  believe  that  tears  were  streaming 
down  my  cheeks  when  I  folded  up  the  paper ;  and 
when  I  replaced  it  in  Herbert's  hands  at  our  next 
meeting,  the  look  with  which  I  met  his  inquiring 
glance  belied  my  heart,  if  it  expressed  aught  but  the 
warmest  sympathy  in  his  feelings  towards  the  writer  of 
that  most  interesting  letter. 


56  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

"The  next  morning  brought  with  it  Mrs.  Harlowe's 
expected  visit.  She  came,  accompanied  by  her  little 
daughter  Flora,  the  smiling  recognition  between 
whom  and  her  seaside  acquaintance  broke  through  the 
formality  of  our  first  meeting,  and  we  were  soon  en- 
gaged in  easy  conversation,  which  took  a  tone  of 
deeper  interest  when  Herbert,  having  been  drawn 
away  towards  the  lawn  by  his  new  friend,  Mrs.  Har- 
lowe  availed  herself  of  the  opportunity  to  inquire 
respecting  his  health,  and  to  confide  to  me  (of  whose 
sympathy  she  was  well  assured)  her  hopes  and  fears 
— of  which  it  was  evident  the  former  greatly  prepon- 
derated— concerning  her  daughter.  I  listened  with 
tender  pity  to  the  poor  mother's  self-deluding  speech  ; 
fresh  in  my  ear  as  was  the  sound  of  that  hollow  cough 
— the  knell,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  of  the  young  Agnes. 
But  as  my  sanguine  guest  continued  to  talk  away  her 
own  apprehensions,  and  from  that  subject  adverting  to 
my  cause  of  anxiety,  professed  surprise  at  perceiving 
in  Herbert's  general  appearance  but  slight  indications 
of  disease,  and  a  cheerful  assurance  that  his  malady  as 
well  as  her  daughter's  would  yield  to  skilful  treatment 
and  youth's  tenacious  powers,  I  felt  that  her  hopeful- 
ness was  contagious,  and  spite  of  reason's  sad  sugges- 
tions, I  blest  her  in  my  heart  for  the  momentary 
gladness  reflected  from  her  sanguine  temper  on  my 
darker  spirit.  Drawn  together  as  we  were  by  mutual 
sympathy,  it  is  not  wonderful  that  when  Mrs.  Har- 
lowe  rose  to  take  leave,  we  parted  with  a  degree  of 
cordiality  seldom  felt  or  expressed  at  such  an  early 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  57 

stage  of  acquaintance  by  we  phlegmatic  English, 
whose  social  feelings  are  for  the  most  part  of  such 
tedious  growth,  that  one  would  think  life  in  our  days 
was  still  extended  to  antediluvian  length,  admitting 
ample  time  for  the  cautious  reserve  which  restrains  us 
from  all  friendly  advances  towards  a  fellow-creature,  till 
we  have  ascertained  his  style,  title,  and  circumstances 
in  this  world  of  ours — for  we  do  not  so  strictly  insist 
on  character. 

"It  was  arranged  before  we  separated,  that  the  door 
of  communication  between  our  two  verandahs  should 
be  unfastened,  for  the  facilitation  of  our  future  inter- 
course, and  more  especially  for  the  convenience  of 
our  dear  invalids,  who  might  thus  pass  from  one  house 
to  the  other  with  as  little  risk  or  fatigue  as  to  their 
own  chambers. 

"The  next  morning  Herbert  came  down  from  his 
room  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual,  with  so  firm  a  step, 
and  so  much  appearance  of  renovation,  that  my  heart 
beat  quick  as  I  looked  at  him,  whispering  to  itself, 
'Can  it  be  possible!7 

"Contrary  to  his  general  bearing,  he  was  restless 
and  pre-occupied,  and  as  early  as  we  could  ask  admit- 
tance, reminded  me  of  my  promise  to  return  Mrs. 
Harlowe's  visit  'And your  consistent  nephew,  who 
has  so  long  discontinued  all  intercourse  with  strangers 
and  the  world,  will  accompany  you,  my  dear  aunt !' 
he  added  with  an  ingenuous  smile,  which  faded  into 
a  more  thoughtful  expression  as  he  said,  after  a  short 
pause — 'I  must  become  acquainted,  you  know,  with 
F  2 


58  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

my  new  sister.  Melcomb  has  committed  to  me  a 
solemn  trust — and  I  have  prayed  to  be  directed  and 
strengthened  in  the  fulfilment  of  it.' 

"Herbert's  countenance  as  he  spoke,  was  so  irradi- 
ated by  sanctity  of  purpose,  that  as  he  stood  before  me, 
'  serene  in  youthful  beauty,'  methought  in  very  truth, 
'his  face  was  as  it  were  the  face  of  an  angel* — and  my 
apprehension  for  himself — for  the  risk  to  his  weak 
frame  and  nervous  system  he  was  about  to  incur,  was 
now  overawed  and  silenced  by  reverence  for  his  mo- 
tives, and  a  secret  consciousness  that  opposition  to 
them  would  be  sinful  as  well  as  fruitless  ;  so,  with  a 
silent  prayer  committing  to  God  my  beloved  one  and 
the  issue  of  our  visit,  I  prepared  myself  to  accompany 
him. 

"  Little  Flora  ran  forward,  as  we  were  ushered  into 
Mrs.  Harlovve's  saloon,  to  meet  and  welcome  Herbert, 
and  to  lead  him  to  be  introduced  to  sister  Agnes  be- 
fore her  mother  could  perform  that  ceremony  to  us 
both  with  less  indecorous  haste.  But  the  hackneyed 
line  may  be  fitly  applied  to  children,  who  often 

Set  before  'em 
A  grace,  a  manner,  a  decorum, 

unattainable  by  art  and  artificial  rules,  and  we  were 
indebted  to  our  youthful  introductress  for  hurrying  us 
through  the  firstlbrms  of  a  meeting,  that,  circumstanced 
as  we  were,  would  otherwise  have  been  more  trying 
to  Herbert  and  myself.  As  it  was — before  the  expi- 
ration of  a  few  minutes  we  were  seated  together,  like 
acquaintances  of  a  much  longer  date,  Herbert  being 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  59 

established  by  his  friend  Flora  in  a  comfortable  corner 
of  her  sjster's  couch.     And  soon,  as  she  talked  with 
my  nephew,  I  was  enabled  to  take  more  than  a  furtive 
glance  at  the  young  creature  between  whom  and  him- 
self existed  such  a  mournful  similarity  of  circumstances. 
That  alone  would  have  ensured  her  a  warm  interest  in 
my  heart,  but  who  could  have  beheld  the  sweet  Agnes 
Melcomb,  such  as  she  was  when  I  first  looked  upon 
her,  with  unmoved  and  uninterested  feelings?   Alas! 
the  progress  of  disease  was  more  apparent  in  her  than 
in  my  beloved  Herbert — for  while  his  respiration  was 
for  the  most  part  free  and  regular  as  that  of  healthful 
childhood,  the  painful  oppression  of  hers  was  too  evi- 
dent in  the  short  audible  breathing,  and  in  the  quick 
heaving  of  the  soft  bosom  folds  of  her  long  muslin 
wrapping  gown.     Her  half  reclining  attitude,  and  the 
languid  sinking  of  her  slender  form,  allowed  me  to 
form  no  correct  judgment  of  its  height — though  there 
was  a  general  indication  of  the  growth  having  been 
too  rapid,  and  already  exceeding  middle  stature.     On 
the  sunken  temples,  from  which  the  hair,  black  as 
night,  was  parted  back  in  two  thick  folds,  and  gathered 
into  a  knot  at  the  back  of  the  head  ;  and  over  the  long 
snowy  throat  and  half  transparent  hands,  the  course  of 
the  blue  veins  was  as  distinctly  visible,  as  if  traced 
externally  by  the  artist's  pencil.     Her  large  dark  eyes, 
half  veiled  by  the  heavy  lids,  were  in  fact  grey,  but  of 
that  peculiar  tinge — that  ebon  blue  of  the  storm-cloud 
— which  might  have  been  taken  for  black,  (but  for 
their  dove-like  softness,)  deepened  as  was  their  colour 


60  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

by  the  long  jetty  eye-lashes,  whose  shadow  rested  on 
the  marble  paleness  of  cheeks  that  had  lost  their  youth- 
ful roundness,  on  one  of  which — as  if  just  uplifted 
from  the  pillow — glowed  one  bright  spot  of  that  rich 
rose  tint,  so  far  more  appalling  to  an  experienced 
observer,  than  the  most  deadly  pallor. 

"  Beyond  the  surpassing  beauty  of  those  eyes,  'that 
seemed  to  love  whate'er  they  looked  upon/  and  the 
almost  infantine  sweetness  of  expression  about  a  mouth 
that  reminded  me  of  that  very  peculiar  feature  in  her 
brother's  face — that  of  Agnes  Melcomb  had  no  distin- 
guished claim  to  beauty.  Such  as  she  was,  however, 
such  as  I  that  day  beheld  her,  in  her  half  reclining 
posture — like  a  tall  young  lily  bent  before  the  blast — 
a  being  hovering  (as  was  too  evident)  on  the  confines 
of  both  worlds,  she  appeared  to  me  the  most  angelic 
creature  my  eyes  had  ever  rested  on  since  they  watched 
the  fading  beauty  of  my  own  Ann  Ross,  that  orphan 
girl  whose  early  fate  drew  from  your  eyes,  my  dear 
friend,  many  a  tear  of  tenderest  compassion  and  sym- 
palhy  for  our  sorrows,  when  we  met  for  the  first  time 
at  Castle-a-Mare. 

"  At  the  time  of  her  death,  our  lost  Ann  nad  just 
completed  her  sixteenth  year.  The  youthful  victim  I 
now  looked  upon  was  not  yet  nineteen  !  Alas !  alas  ! 
and  had  the  fatal  decree  gone  forth  against  her?  Was 
the  sentence  irreversible?  Was  she  also,  and  that  be- 
loved one  who  sat  beside  her,  both  those  youthful, 
beautiful  beings,  to  be  taken  from  light  and  life,  fair 
hopes,  and  fondest  affection,  the  cheerful  sunshine,  and 


TIIE    EARLY   CALLED.  61 

the  smiling  earth,  and  laid  so  early  in  the  dark  narrow 
house  appointed  for  all  living?  Oh,  Lindsay !  there 
are  moments  when  such  thoughts  as  these  will  suggest 
themselves  to  the  most  faithful,  the  most  believing, 
and  resigned  ;  but  thanks  be  to  the  revealed  word, 
though  mists  and  shadows  may  for  a  time  come  be- 
tween us  and  our  immortal  hopes,  they  cannot  utterly 
obscure  them,  and  when  the  temporary  film  is  with- 
drawn, we  penetrate  farther,  and  with  a  clearer  vision, 
into  realms  of  light  and  blessedness  ;  tracking  thither 
the  ascent  of  the  emancipated  spirit,  instead  of  clinging 
to  its  cast-off  slough  ;  the  perishable  mortal  part  that 
must  be  hidden  awhile  from  our  eyes,  before  it  shall  be 
raised  imperishable  and  glorified. 

"  Beside  the  couch  of  Agnes  stood  a  sofa-table,  on 
which  were  spread  out  on  plates  and  papers  many 
coloured  sea-weeds,  in  various  stages  of  preparation ; 
a  source  of  mutual  interest  and  occupation  to  the  sick 
girl  and  her  lively  little  sister,  whose  lately  collected 
shells  and  pebbles  were  also  arranged  in  rows  on  the 
same  table,  and  Herbert  was  soon  busied  with  the 
sisters  in  the  light  labour  of  disentangling  and  spread- 
ing the  beautiful  weeds,  designed,  when  properly  pre- 
pared, to  enrich  a  collection  of  natural  specimens, 
marine  and  other,  of  which  a  large  book  produced  by 
Agnes  was  half  full,  she  boasted,  and  in  which,  by  the 
end  of  the  next  summer,  not  a  blank  leaf  should  be 
left,  if  she  soon  got  well  and  strong  and  could  assist 
Flora  in  collecting. 

"  As  she  spoke,  a  faint  flush  mantled  on  Herbert's 


62  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

cheek,  and  he  stooped  with  more  seeming  intentness 
over  his  delicate  task  ;  but  a  moment  after,  when  his 
eyes  glanced  aside  at  the  fair  pale  face,  bent  in  smiling 
eagerness  beside  his,  I  saw  that  they  were  glazed  with 
tears,  and  that  by  a  strong  effort  only  he  so  mastered 
his  emotion  as  to  answer  some  question  she  addressed 
to  him  with  an  unfaltering  voice. 

"  As  Mrs.  Harlowe  strolled  with  me  on  the  lawn, 
leaving  the  young  trio  to  their  quiet  occupation,  she 
fell  by  degrees  into  almost  confidential  discourse  re- 
lating to  her  family  affairs ;  and  adverting  to  her 
absent  son-in-law,  spoke  of  him  with  a  degree  of  aspe- 
rity I  should  scarce  have  looked  for  from  a  person  of 
her  apparent  gentleness  and  kindly  nature. 

"But  recollecting  my  former  experience  with  regard 
to  Melcomb,  and  the  too  just  cause  I  had  had  for  de- 
precating his  influence  over  Herbert,  I  made  large  al- 
lowance for  Mrs.  Harlowe's" feelings,  especially  on  per- 
ceiving that  the  irritation  she  betrayed  was  occasioned 
by  a  recent  endeavour  of  her  step-son's  to  awaken 
her  to  a  conviction  of  her  child's  danger,  and  a  solemn 
exhortation  he  had  addressed  to  her,  in  his  farewell 
letter,  to  prepare  the  unconscious  Agnes  for  a  know- 
ledge of  the  awful  truth — since  to  himself,  he  added 
'  a  mother's  mistaken  tenderness  had  denied  the  con- 
solation of  performing  that  solemn  duty  before  he 
parted  with  his  beloved  sister  for  the  last  time  on  this 
side  eternity/ 

"  The  poor  mother,  as  she  repeated  these  words  to 
me,  gave  way  to  a  burst  of  angry  reproachfulness,  the 


THE    EARLY    CALLED,  63 

evidence  rather  of  secret  fear  and  inward  misgivings, 
than  of  harsh  feeling  towards  her  son-in-law,  whose 
'cruel  unnecessary  counsel/  she  vehemently  condemn- 
ed, applauding  the  firmness  with  which  she  had  resisted 
his  pleadings  to  be  allowed  to  see  his  sister  in  private 
before  their  separation.  '  He  would  have  killed  my 
child,'  faltered  the  poor  woman,  with  a  rising  sob. 
1  My  timid  Agnes  would  have  expired  under  the 
shock.  And  now  she  is  so  much  better,  so  fast  recov- 
ering, how  barbarous  it  would  be  to  cause  her  such 
useless  agitation  !' 

"  How  often  does  some  poor  weak  heart  seek  relief 
thus  waywardly,  by  denying  to  itself  the  existence  of 
impending  evil,  and  venting  its  real  terrors  in  angry 
accusation  of  the  faithful  and  courageous  monitor  who 
dares,  at  whatever  cost  to  his  own  feelings,  to  utter 
the  warning  voice  !  My  heart  ached  for  the  poor  mo- 
ther as  she  looked  up  in  my  face  for  encouragement 
to  her  fond  delusion,  but  I  could  only  keep  silence  ; 
and  after  a  moment's  pause,  adverting  to  the  state  of 
my  own  dear  sufferer,  I  ventured  a  grateful  remark  on 
the  extraordinary  measure  of  divine  grace  which  sup- 
ported him  under  the  calm  and  settled  conviction  that 
a  fatal  termination  of  his  malady  was  not  far  distant, 
adding,  how  fervently  I  prayed  for  strength  sufficient 
to  uphold  me  through  that  hour  when  I  should  be 
called  on  to  resign  the  last  living  object  of  my  earthly 
care. 

"My  observation  was  met  with  more  of  impatience 
than  sympathy,  and  with  a  vehemence  of  sanguine 


64  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

prognostic  more  indicative  of  secret  misgiving  than  of 
cheerful  assurance  ;  but  I  also  was  prone  to  catch  at 
shadows,  tinted  with  the  faintest  colouring  of  hope, 
and  by  degrees  our  conversation  assumed  a  less  sombre 
tone,  and  we  parted  mutually  pleased  with  our  pros- 
pect of  frequent  intercourse. 

"  Circumstanced  as  we  were,  indeed,  our  acquaint- 
ance had  made  farther  advance  towards  intimacy  in 
three  days  than  it  would  have  done  in  as  many  months, 
had  we  been  brought  together  in  general  society,  and 
amid  the  turmoil  of  worldly  distractions.  Hearts  do 
not  open,  like  gaudy  flowers,  in  broad  sunshine,  but 
rather  in  stillness  and  in  shade,  like  those  more  deli- 
cate and  fragrant,  that  wait  the  coming  forth  of  the 
evening  star  to  diffuse  their  hoarded  sweetness. 

"  In  a  short  time  our  two  families  became  almost  as 
one — Mrs.  Harlowe's  drawing-room  the  general  ren- 
dezvous, and  Herbert's  post,  established  for  the  most 
part,  as  assigned  by  Flora,  in  one  corner  of  the  sofa 
occupied  by  Agnes,  or  in  a  comfortable  chair  at  the 
sisters'  work-table.  For  a  season,  as  is  so  common  in 
consumptive  cases,  there  was  a  seeming  pause  in  the 
progress  of  disease  in  both  the  dear  objects  of  our  soli- 
citude, and  in  Herbert  I  remarked  especially  such  a 
lighting  up  of  the  languid  and  drooping  spirit,  as  half 
beguiled  me  into  hope  that  the  physical  renovation 
was  equally  unquestionable. 

"The  strength  of  Agnes  was  so  far  restored,  that 
she  was  soon  able,  with  the  assistance  of  an  arm,  to 
reach  the  sea-beach  once  at  least  in  every  morning  of 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  65 

those  soft  sunny  days  that  succeeded  each  other  in 
unvarying  series  through  many  weeks  of  that  delight- 
ful autumn.  There,  settled  luxuriously  on  a  heap  of 
cloaks  and  shawls,  arranged  by  her  tender  little  nurse, 
whose  care  for  the  accommodation  of  Herbert  was 
almost  as  zealous,  she  passed  many  an  hour  of  peaceful 
enjoyment,  my  nephew  sometimes  seated  beside  her, 
or  strolling  to  a  short  distance  with  Mrs.  Harlowe  and 
myself,  or  enlisted  by  Flora  in  her  persevering  quest 
of  marine  treasures,  to  be  deposited  at  the  feet  or  in 
the  lap  of  Agnes  on  their  return  from  each  short  ex- 
cursion. 

"  Herbert  had  become  decidedly  a  favourite  with 
Mrs.  Harlowe,  and  in  her  sanguine  persuasion  that  his 
perfect  recovery  and  that  of  her  daughter  were  no 
longer  doubtful,  she  watched  the  progress  of  their 
intimacy,  and  the  similarity  of  their  tastes  and  pursuits, 
with  evident  and  avowed  gratification  ;  in  the  affec- 
tionate openness  of  her  nature  sometimes  expressing 
to  me  her  almost  romantic  desire  that  their  already 
undisguised  regard  might  ripen  into  permanent  attach- 
ment. But  well  I  knew  that  no  fond  dreams  of  earthly 
union  with  the  sweet  Agnes  mingled  with  the  tender 
interest  felt  for  her  by  Herbert ;  for  he  at  least  deluded 
himself  with  no  fallacious  hopes,  built  up  on  temporary 
revival,  and  I  was  full  sure  that  throughout  our  pleasant 
hours  of  daily  intercourse,  one  anxious  thought  was 
ever  present  with  him,  and  that  he  felt  himself 'strait- 
ened,' till  the  accomplishment  of  the  task  committed 
to  him  by  his  departing  friend. 


66  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

"But  his  opportunities  of  uninterrupted  conversation 
with  Agnes  were  few  and  short,  little  Flora  being 
their  almost  inseparable  companion  during  the  occasi- 
onal absence  of  her  mother  ;  so  that  I  believe  it  was 
long  before  Herbert  ventured  to  speak  unreservedly 
to  Agnes  of  her  absent  brother,  and  to  introduce  by 
cautious  degrees  the  subject  nearest  to  his  heart.  But 
soon  as  the  autumnal  air  freshened  into  more  bracing 
keenness,  the  sick  girl  shrank  like  a  tender  flower 
from  its  ruder  visitation,  and  again,  visibly  and  sen- 
sibly drooping,  seldom  quitted  the  corner  of  her  soft 
sofa,  and  the  regulated  temperature  of  the  drawing- 
room  ;  :and  Herbert's  enjoyment  of  out-door  exercise 
being  restricted  by  the  same  cause  almost  to  the  short 
range  of  the  sunny  verandah,  it  now  frequently  hap^- 
pened  that  the  two  invalids  were  left  together  for  a 
considerable  time,  while  Flora  accompanied  her  mo- 
ther and  myself  in  our  still  daily  walks. 

"  Had  these  young  persons  been  less  sadly  circum- 
stanced, I,  as  well  as  the  mother  of  Agnes,  should  have 
noted  with  delighted,  as  well  as  deep  interest,  the  pro- 
gress of  an  attachment,  which,  situated  as  they  were, 
I  felt  it  would  be  profanation  to  call  love  ;  and  that, 
on  the  part  of  Herbert  at  least,  'love  such  as  angels 
feel,'  was  the  only  sentiment  he  would  dare  entertain 
towards  her,  whose  young  innocent  heart  had  perhaps 
given  itself  to  him,  unconscious  that  its  affections  must 
be  so  soon  unwound  from  every  earthly  object.  But 
whatever  were  the  reciprocal  feelings  of  those  young 
hearts,  and  whatever  the  nature  of  an  affection  so 


THE    EARLY    CALLED,  67 

strangely  born,  and  nourished,  as  it  were,  in  the  very 
shadow  of  death,  it  was  affection  the  most  touching  to 
behold,  from  its  peculiar  character  of  ever  watchful 
sympathy,  observant  each  of  the  other's  sufferings, 
and  for  each  other's  sake  ingenious  in  every  tender 
art  that  can  beguile  and  soothe  the  sufferer — an  anxiety 
as  artlessly  displayed  by  the  sweet  Agnes,  as  evinced 
in  every  look  and  gesture  of  Herbert. 

"  Insensible  as  she  still  seemed  to  the  fact  of  her 
own  danger,  she  became  gradually  in  some  measure 
awakened  to  the  serious  nature  of  Herbert's  malady, 
and  often,  as  she  scanned  his  wasting  form,  and  hoi- 
lower  cheek,  a  cloud  of  sadness  gathered  over  that 
fair  wan  face,  whose  playful  sweetness  of  expression 
had  hitherto  scarcely  varied  in  her  hours  of  severest 
suffering.  Of  this  awakening  sense  of  his  precarious 
state,  Herbert  availed  himself  to  prepare  her  for  a 
knowledge  of  her  own,  during  one  of  those  morning 
opportunities  that  were  now  frequently  afforded. 

"  Adverting  to  the  subject  of  his  own  health,  he 
went  on  to  speak  of  the  graciousness  of  God's  dealings 
with  him,  in  giving  him  perfect  and  salutary  know- 
ledge of  the  hopelessness  of  recovery,  and  ample  time 
of  preparation  for  the  approaching  change.  I  believe 
(for  Herbert  dwelt  not  on  details  in  this  part  of  his 
agitated  account)  that  the  poor  Agnes  was  cruelly 
overpowered,  on  being  made  perfectly  to  comprehend 
the  whole  of  the  fatal  truth,  as  far  as  the  fate  of  Her- 
bert was  involved  in  it.  It  is  possible — though  I  do 
but  surmise  it  so  far — that  her  young  heart,  in  its  first 


68  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

outbreak  of  uncontrollable  anguish,  betrayed  the  fulness 
of  its  feelings  towards  him. — And  his  ! — in  that  trying 
moment,  did  it  utter  no  secret  cry,  no  passionate  appeal, 
that  if  it  were  possible, '  the  cup  might  yet  pass  from 
them  ?'  If  human  infirmity  so  far  prevailed,  assuredly 
the  words, '  Thy  will  be  done,'  went  up  to  Heaven  in 
the  same  breath;  and  the  answer  was,  'peace  and 
strength;'  for,  bracing  himself  up  for  the  full  per- 
formance of  his  accepted  trust,  before  they  saparated 
that  morning,  the  gentle  and  fearful  creature,  whose 
tender  nature  had  been  so  distressfully  overpowered 
by  "the  intimation  of  his  danger,  was  calmed  as  well  as 
awe-struck  by  the  more  cautiously  conveyed  knowledge 
of  her  own. 

"The  precise  manner  of  the  communication,  and  its 
immediate  impression,  I  know  not.  I  could  not,  dared 
not,  curiously  inquire,  so  sacred  to  my  feelings  were 
the  secrets  of  that  sad,  strange  interview — secrets  such 
as 'angels  might  love  to  look  upon' — but  too  holy  to  be 
subjected  to  the  profanation  of  mortal  curiosity.  That 
day  Herbert  paid  no  second  visit  to  Mrs.  Harlowe's 
drawing-room,  and  I  found  him  indeed  so  exhausted 
by  recent  excitement,  that  it  was  with  some  difficulty 
he  supported  himself  to  join  me  at  the  dinner  hour, 
and  soon  afterwards  bidding  me  farewell  for  the  night, 
he  requested  that  Johnson  might  be  summoned  to 
assist  him  to  his  bed-chamber.  '  But  feel  no  unusual 
anxiety  on  my  account,  dearest  aunt,'  he  whispered 
with  his  parting  kiss,  observant  of  my  anxious  and 
troubled  countenance — '  this  exhaustion  is  but  tern- 


THE    EAKLY    CALLED.  69 

porary — you  will  see  me  to-morrow,  (if  I  am  spared 
so  long,)  revived  and  gladdened  by  the  consciousness 
that  the  painful  part  of  my  delegated  office  is  fulfilled. 
The  awakening  is  over  ;  and  I  have  now  only  to 
soothe — to  support — to  encourage,  my  sister  pilgrim 
through  the  short  remainder  of  our  way.' 

"'As  if  an  angel  spoke,'  I  listened  in  tearful,  rever- 
ential silence  to  the  words  of  the  beloved  speaker, 
watching  his  enfeebled  steps,  as,  leaning  heavily  on 
Johnson's  arm,  he  slowly  retired,  with  a  sad  forebod- 
ing that  the  time  was  fast  approaching  when  I  should 
hear  his  voice  no  more. 

"  Scarcely  had  Herbert  left  me,  when  Mrs.  Har- 
lowe  tapped  at  the  window  for  admittance,  having  left 
Flora,  she  said,  beside  the  couch  of  her  sleeping  sister. 
The  hopeful  spirit  of  my  poor  friend  was  still  unsub- 
dued, though  for  some  time  past  she  had  become^  more 
restlessly  watchful  of  her  precious  charge,  and  could 
not  at  all  times,  it  was  evident,  conceal  from  herself 
the  too  visible  progress  of  disease.     This  evening  she 
was  unusually  thoughtful  and  depressed  ;  spoke  of  the 
increasing  debility  of  Agnes,  and  of  a  change  she  had 
lately  observed  in  the  hitherto  gay  and  happy  temper 
of  her  darling — '  and  this  evening  she  is  quite  unlike 
herself,'  continued  the  anxious  mother,  'I  have  sur- 
prised her  more  than  once  in  tears,  and  when  I  en- 
deavoured to  draw  from  her  the  cause  of  her  distress, 
she  hid  her  dear  face  in  my  bosom,  and  sobbing  as  if 
her  heart  would  break,  asked  my  forgiveness  for  all  her 
faults,  and  the  great  trouble  and  anxiety  she  had  occa- 
02 


70  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

sioned  me.     Blessed  child  !  she  who  has  been  the  joy 

and  comfort   of  my  life,  till  now  that 

Oh,  my  dear  friend  !  is  it  even  so,  are  those  two 
beloved  beings  to  be  united  only  in  death  ?'  I  could 
only  mingle  my  tears  with  those  of  my  sister  in 
affliction,  who  gave  way  to  a  burst  of  agony,  soon 
exhausted  by  its  own  violence ;  and  then  again  the 
sanguine  temper  struggled  for  ascendency,  and  before 
she  rose  to  leave  me,  the  fond  self-deceiver  had  talked 
away  half  her  own  fears,  and  but  for  the  almost  re- 
proving seriousness  of  my  answering  looks,  would 
fain  have  beguiled  me  into  forgetfulness  of  mine. 

"But  I  could  not  suffer  her  to  leave  me  unaccompa- 
nied. I  wished  to  look  once  more  that  day  on  the 
sweet  Agnes,  now  become  to  mean  object  of  almost 
maternal  interest ;  and  together  we  stole  noiselessly 
into  the  drawing-room,  at  the  farther  end  of  which 
she  lay  still  sleeping,  little  Flora  watching  beside  her 
motionless  as  a  statue. 

"Stealthily  I  crept  towards  the  couch,  and  for  many 
moments  stood  sadly  gazing  on  that  young  pale  face, 
whose  serenity  would  have  been  the  very  'rapture  of 
repose/  but  for  a  moist  and  glittering  token,  which 
had  stolen  as  she  slept  from  beneath  the  long  eyelash, 
to  the  small  white  hand  on  which  her  cheek  rested 
on  the  pillow.  The  other  hand  lay  languidly  on  her 
lap,  in  relaxed  hold  of  a  half  open  prayer-book.  The 
thin  fingers  yet  marked  the  page  she  had  been  reading  ; 
it  was  the  service  appointed  for  the  burial  of  the 
dead, 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  71 

"If  our  neighbourly  intercourse  was  from  this  day 
forth  less  enlivened  by  the  unconscious  gaiety  of 
Agnes,  and  the  feverish  excitement  of  her  mother, 
hitherto  sustained  by  fond  and  baseless  hope,  the 
hearts  of  all  were  drawn  closer  together,  as  the  veil 
of  useless  and  cruel  concealment  was  withdrawn. 

"  That  of  my  poor  friend  still  for  a  brief  while 
maintained  the  miserable  struggle  between  wilful 
disbelief  and  sober,  irresistible  conviction — between 
its  own  passionate  wishes  and  the  Almighty  will. 
But  gradually  the  secret  working  of  his  grace  prevailed 
over  the  resisting  infirmity  of  nature ;  submissive  tears 
succeeded  to  impetuous  anguish  ;  and  then  came  the 
sense  of  dependent  weakness,  and  divine  support,— 
the  calmness  born  of  acquiescence  in  the  divine  will, 
and  the  dawning  of  a  better  hope  than  that  of  which 
the  sacrifice  was  so  hardly  yielded.  It  was  as  beautiful 
as  affecting  to  mark  tire  instrumentality  by  which  this 
great  change  in  the  feelings  of  my  poor  friend  was 
brought  to  pass, — even  by  the  gentle  ministry  of  the 
beloved  one — the  object  of  that  fond  idolatry,  which 
had  possibly  drawn  down  upon  itself  the  rod  that 
chaste neth  in  mercy. 

"The  youthful  victim — should  I  not  rather  say,  the 
youthful  saint?  was  now  her  mother's  comforter,  her 
tender  and  timid  nature  receiving  supplies  of  strength 
and  consolation  in  full  measure,  as  she  imparted  to  her 
still  weaker  parent.  The  breaking  heart  of  the  little 
Flora,  too,  piejced  by  its  first  great  sorrow,  (that  spear 
of  sharpest  point!)  found  balm  only  on  the  bosom  of 


72  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

sister  Agnes,  soothed  by  her  tears  and  kisses,  and 
softly  whispered  words  of  heavenly  hope.  And  from 
whence  did  the  fair  saint  herself  derive  the  power, 
that  thus,  in  the  hour  of  her  extremest  need,  triumphed 
over  natural  weakness,  and  the  shrinking  fearfulness 
of  her  own  heart?  Assuredly  from  that  one  only  . 
source  of  all  efficient  aid,  whose  strength  is  perfected 
in  weakness;  but  the  Divine  will,  so  often  working  in 
its  wisdom  by  human  agency,  had  assigned  to  its 
trembling  creature  such  mortal  companionship  and 
support,  through  the  shadowy  and  mysterious  passage, 
as  divested  it  of  half  its  terrors.  The  path  Herbert 
must  tread  would  hardly  have  been  declined  by  Agnes, 
had  she  been  free  to  enter  on  or  turn  aside  from  it ; 
and  when  he  spoke  to  her  of  the  place  it  led  to — of 
the  nothingness  of  all  sufferings  by  the  way,  compared 
with  the  exceeding  great  reward  of  those  who  are 
faithful  to«  the  end;  of  the  reunion  of  friends  long 
parted,  never  to  part  again;  (and  in  that  blissful 
vision  the  image  of  the  absent  Melcomb  was  present 
with  the  sister  and  the  friend ;)  of  tears  wiped  from 
all  eyes ;  of  hearts  lightened  of  all  sorrow,  cleansed 
from  all  sin  ;  and  as  his  face,  while  he  thus  discoursed 
of  heaven  and  heavenly  things,  lightened  up  with  the 
glory  of  his  subject,  the  eyes  of  Agnes  followed  the 
direction  of  his,  upraised  in  holy  fervour,  and  assuredly 
at  such  moments  her  fears  were  more  than  calmed — 
her  hope  almost  exultant 

"But    not  at   all   seasons    was   the  spiritual   thus 
victorious  over  the  material  frame.     In  both  our  dear 


THE    EARLY   CALLED.  73 

charges  the  mental  energies  ebbed  and  flowed  with 
the  fluctuations  of  bodily  disease  ;  though  under  all 
circumstances  each  was  most  tremblingly  alive  to  the 
other's  sufferings.  At  intervals  also,  in  the  course  of 
that  long  dreary  winter,  sickly  gleams  of  hope  stole 
in  upon  us — upon  myself — and  more  especially  on 
Mrs.  Harlowe  ;  withdrawn  almost  as  soon  as  the  false 
light  had  played  before  us,  but  doubtless  sent  in  mercy 
to  beguile  the  heart-wasting  uniformity  of  hopeless 
watching. 

"  And  with  both  our  beloved  ones  the  hand  of  death 
dealt  slowly,  and  for  the  most  part  mildly  with  each ; 
— mildly,  compared  with  its  more  frequent  inflictions ; 
for  they  who  have  tended  decaying  nature,  and  watch- 
ed the  process  of  dissolution,  know  that  rarely  indeed 
does  the  great  change  take  place  so  easily  and  painless- 
ly as  is  often  depicted  in  the  fanciful  page  of  fiction — 
the  fond  assumption  of  the  inexperienced  or  unthink- 
ing. But  they  know  also,  that  though  their  own  hearts 
have  responded  pang  for  pang,  to  the  breaking  of 
every  living  chord,  that  it  is  good  for  them,  as  well  as 
for  the  object  of  their  agonized  affection,  that  the 
instrument  should  be  thus  gradually  unstrung,  and 
that  the  lingering  ordeal  is  appointed  to  prove  the 
faith  and  submission  of  the  mourner,  as  well  as  of  the 
departing,  whose  rest  is  so  near. 

"To  my  poor  Herbert  the  most  painful  privation 
resulting  from  his  increasing  infirmities,  was,  that  as 
the  winter  set  in  more  severely,  he  was  often  for  days 
together  debarred  from  all  personal  intercourse  with 


74  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

Agnes,  whose  droopingspiritsat  such  seasons,  without 
evincing  the  slightest  shade  of  fretfulness  or  impatience, 
betrayed  the  lingering  weakness  of  the  creature,  still 
in  some  sort  clinging  for  support  to  its  fellow-mortal. 
Then  it  was,  in  those  sad  and  trying  intervals,  that 
the  loving  little  Flora  flitted  from  house  to  house, 
from  one  sick  chamber  to  the  other,  like  a  .bright 
spirit  on  a  sunbeam,  conveying  from  each  to  each, 
warm  from  the  heart,  thoughts  and  feelings,  messages 
and  assurances,  most  fitly  committed,  in  their  saintly 
purity,  to  the  innocent  agency  of  that  lovely  intelli- 
gent child :  and  frequently  she  was  the  bearer  of  short 
notes  and  sundry  tokens,  valueless,  yet  invaluable, 
the  hieroglyphic  characters  of  the  heart's  language. 

"Often  throughout  the  course  of  her  life  to  come, 
will  that  dear  child  look  back,  with  grateful  and  tender 
remembrance,  to  the  period  of  her  youthful  ministry 
between  those  who  are  now  angels  in  heaven.  Deep 
in  her  heart  I  trust  have  sunk  the  lessons  of  their 
beautiful  example  and  affectionate  teaching;  for  it  was 
the  delight  of  both  (unselfish  in  all  their  feelings)  to 
turn  to  the  profit  of  the  faithful  and  docile  little  mes- 
senger and  friend  every  incident  and  circumstance 
connected  with,  and  interesting  to  themselves,  upon 
which  some  'word  in  season'  might  be  spoken  con- 
ducive to  her  instruction  and  improvement. 

"  Often  henceforward,  as  she  turns  over  the  leaves 
of  her  Bible — the  Bible  given  to  her  by  Herbert,  with 
his  name  and  hers  written  by  himself  on  the  fly  leaf 
— will  her  eyes  and  heart  linger  long  on  particular 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  75 

passages  inseparably  associated  with  the  memory  of 
those  who  so  frequently,  during  seasons  of  particular 
trial,  exhorted  and  comforted  each  other  by  applicable 
sentences  from  holy  writ,  indicated  from  each  to  each 
by  the  finger  of  Flora,  or  repeated  from  her  faithful 
memory.  Their  voices  will  speak  to  her  in  the  voice 
of  nature  ;  from  whose  inexhaustible  storehouse  they 
taught  her,  by  participation  and  example,  to  draw 
forth  treasures  of  delight,  unfading  and  uncloying  in 
their  simple  purity.  How  precious  to  her  will  be  the 
possession  of  that  book  of  natural  specimens,  half  filled 
by  their  joint  labours.  It  had  been  the  natural  and 
impulsive  act  of  Agnes,  on  becoming  fully  aware  that 
she  stood  on  the  brink  of  eternity,  to  put  away  from 
her  as  nearly  as  possible,  all  the  petty  concerns  of  time 
— turning  especially  from  the  innocent  occupations  she 
had  hitherto  delighted  in,  with  a  heart-sickening  sense 
of  her  changed  circumstances.  But  Herbert,  after  a 
•while  observing  this,  drew  forth  from  its  hiding  place 
the  discarded  book,  and  spreading  it  open  on  the  table 
before  Agnes,  said  to  her,  as  he  looked  with  undimi- 
nished  interest  on  their  collected  treasures — *  Dear 
friend !  because  we  are  drawing  near  to  our  father's 
home,  shall  we  therefore  refuse  to  pick  the  way-side 
flowers  with  which  he  has  adorned  the  path  that  leads 
to  it?  And  from  that  hour,  almost  to  the  last  of 
her  short  life,  the  work  was  resumed  at  intervals,  and 
with  a  far  deeper  interest  than  that  of  former  days, 
when,  at  Herbert's  suggestion,  the  heirship  of  the 


76  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

book  was  assigned  to  Flora,  the  young  associate  of 
their  unfinished  task. 

"Forgive  me,  Lindsay  !  that  I  dwell  on  such  details, 
so  trivial,  so  unimportant  as  they  would  be  deemed  by 
many ;  but  the  heart's  records  are  made  up  of  such 
trifles,  and  the  least  among  them  is  sanctified  by  love 
and  sorrow.  How  vividly  I  have  now  before  me — 
nay,  you  will  have  patience  with  me,  my  kind  friend  ! 
— the  forms  of  Herbert  and  Flora,  as  in  a  by-gone 
hour !  My  dear  one  languidly  extended  on  his  couch, 
but  listening  with  a  sweet  attentive  seriousness  to  the 
words  of  the  fair  child  who  stood  before  him,  her  face 
all  glowing  with  earnest  inquiry,  and  holding  forth  in 
her  small  hand  a  chrysalis  she  had  found  among  the 
cobwebs  in  a  closet,  which  she  had  been  bidden  by 
'sister  Agnes'  to  show  to  Herbert,  with  a  request  that 
he  would  tell  her  of  what  that  shape  of  torpid  life  was 
a  type  and  semblance. 

"As  she  delivered  her  mysterious  message,  Herbert's 
pale  face  flushed  over  cheek  and  brow,  and  half  raising 
himself  in  the  strength  of  his  emotion,  he  took  the 
child's  hand,  still  holding  the  chrysalis  between  both 
his,  and  looking  with  affectionate  seriousness  into  her 
soft  glistening  eyes,  said, — (  Know  you  not,  my  little 
Flora,  that  within  this  shapeless  husk,  is  hidden  what 
once  had  life  and  motion?  what  still  lives,  though 
motionless, — senseless, — invisible  ?  what,  when  the 
time  is  come,  shall  break  forth  into  more  perfect  life  ; 
no  longer,  as  before  its  shroud  was  wrapt  about  it,  a 
vile  creeping  worm,  but  a  beautiful  winged  creature, 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  77 

destined  to  take  its  pastime  in  the  fields  of  air  and 
light,  soaring  far,  far  above  the  earth  on  which  it  was 
condemned  to  crawl  out  its  first  state  of  existence  ?' 

"  The  child's  kindling  eye,  still  riveted  on  his,  and 
the  quick  heaving  of  her  chest,  told  that  her  sharp 
intellect  had  half  solved  the  mystery;  but  she  still 
silently  awaited  the  promised  explanation. 

"  '  My  little  Flora/  resumed  her  gentle  teacher, ( as 
the  worm  is  hidden  for  awhile  in  that  dark  shell,  its 
coffin  and  its  grave,  shall  not  our  bodies  also' 

"'Oh!  I  know,  I  know  it  all  now/  she  broke  in 
with  passionate  vehemence,  while  tears,  that  had  been 
gathering  in  her  soft  eyes,  coursed  each  other  like 
heavy  rain-drops  over  the  crimson  cheeks.  *  I  know 
all  now  that  sister  Agnes  meant,  and  she  and  you  will 

soon  fly  away,  far,  far  from  poor  Flora,  till,  till' 

and  her  eyes  brightened  with  April  sunshine  as  she 
continued,  after  a  moment's  thought, ( till  wings,  like 
those  of  the  beautiful  butterfly,  are  given  to  her  too  to 
follow  you  into  heaven.' 

"  Lindsay !  reminiscences  such  as  these  are  trea- 
sures to  be  garnered  in  one's  heart  of  hearts.  But  I 
will  linger  over  them  no  longer  ;  and  now,  a  little 
patience  yet,  and  I  shall  reach  the  close  of  my  unevent- 
ful story. 

"  So  passed  the  dreary  winter  months,  and  with 
them  ebbed  away,  fast,  fast,  those  precious  lives,  that 
seemed  sinking  to  the  lowest  mark,  when 

'  Spring's  first  breath 

Came  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  blow,' 
H 


78  THE    EARLY   CALLED. 

and  for  a  little  space  revived  even  those  fading  human 
flowers,  whose  place  was  so  soon  '  to  know  them  no 
more/ 

"Suddenly  the  cough  ceased  with  Agnes,  and, 
though  her  weakness  perceptibly  increased,  she  was 
otherwise  so  free  from  suffering,  that  when  carried 
from  her  chamber  to  the  drawing-room  couch,  she  was 
again  able,  for  many  hours  of  the  day,  to  enjoy  the 
refreshing  change,  and  above  all,  the  companionship 
of  him  who  was  to  her  more  than  a  brother ;  for  Her- 
bert, too,  had  so  far  rallied,  as  to  resume  his  station 
beside  her,  near  the  littered  sofa-table,  where  little 
Flora  still  plied  her  now  unassisted  tasks,  or  at  times 
read  aloud  in  her  sweet,  clear,  childish  voice,  to  those 
who  were  no  longer  capable  of  the  exertion ;  and  often 
as  the  day  darkened,  and  the  silvery  moonlight  stole 
in  upon  our  party,  each  busied  with  thoughts  that  loved 
that  quiet  hour,  the  low  converse  of  the  younger  trio 
would  drop  away  insensibly  to  words  whispered  at 
intervals,  or  give  place  to  the  soft  tones  of  the  child's 
voice,  as,  seated  on  her  little  stool,  her  arm  resting  on 
her  sister's  lap,  it  swelled  with  tremulous  sweetness 
into  the  simple' melody  of  the  evening  hymn. 

"But  day  by  day  the  little  remaining  strength  of 
Agnes  decreased  rapidly,  and  for  the  last  two  her 
removal  to  the  sitting-room  had  been  followed  by  long 
fainting  fits  ;  so  that  the  repetition  of  so  fatiguing  an 
experiment  was  expressly  forbidden  by  the  physician 
who  attended  her  and  Herbert. 

"  'And  my  friend  here,'  he  added,  turning  to  the 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  79 

latter,  with  whom  he  spoken  apart  for  a  few  moments, 
*  must  be  content,  also,  to  keep  his  chamber  for  a  day 
or  two.  These  young  ones  have  been  talking  each 
other  to  death,  I  suspect,  and  must  do  penance  for  a 
while  in  separate  cells.  Nay,  all  the  better,'  he  turned 
to  say,  while  leaving  the  room, '  if  the  sentence  is  en- 
forced immediately.' 

"But  who  could  have  had  the  heart  to  enforce  it? 
when  the  pleading  looks  of  both,  alternately  bent  on 
us  and  each  other,  even  more  touchingly  than  their 
beseeching  words,  prayed,  that  for  the  short  remaining 
hour  of  this  day, —  possibly  the  last  they  should  pass 
together, — they  might  not  be  separated. 

"  Thank  God  !  they  were  not  With  a  prohibition 
of  almost  all  conversation,  and  an  injunction  to  Flora 
not  to  tempt  them  by  word  or  sign  to  disobey,  Mrs. 
Harlowe  and  I  acceded  to  the  petition,  and  leaving 
them  to  their  silent  companionship,  withdrew  with  our 
work  to  the  farther  end  of  the  drawing-room. 

"  Our  own  sad  and  spiritless  converse  soon  lan- 
guished into  watchful  silence,  as  we  gratefully  observed 
that  the  restless  weariness,  from  which  Agnes  had  been 
suffering  for  some  hours,  was  giving  way  to  drowsi- 
ness ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  Herbert,  whose  easy-chair 
was  close  beside  her  pillow,  bent  over  and  gazed  on 
her  for  a  moment,  and  then,  half  turning  towards  us, 
motioned  with  his  finger  that  she  slept. 

"  Flora,  absorbed  in  her  silent  occupation,  continued 
it,  till  the  fast-fading  daylight  was  insufficient  even  for 
her  young  eyes,  and  then,  softly  rising,  the  child  stole 


80  THE   EARLY    CALLED, 

on  tip-toe  to  take  one  look  at  her  sleeping  sister,  and 
seated  herself  quietly  on  the  low  stool,  resting  her 
fair  head  on  Herbert's  knee. 

"  Deep  in  mournful  musing  we  sat  in  our  distant 
corner,  gazing  on  the  beloved  group,  till  the  increasing 
gloom  scarce  allowed  us  to  distinguish  each  from  each. 
They  were  still  as  marble  statues  ;  shudderingly  my 
heart  whispered,  '  still  as  death/  But  the  regular 
breathing  of  the  child  was  soon  audible,  as  she,  too, 
caught  the  infectious  influence  of  the  hour,  and  sank 
into  quiet  slumber  ;  and  Herbert  slightly  stirred,  me- 
thought  with  something  of  startled  suddenness,  as  if 
about  to  rise,  or  as  though  Agnes  was  awakening ;  but 
just  then  a  mass  of  heavy  clouds  dropped  down  like  a 
pall  over  that  quarter  of  the  heavens  from  whence  the 
pale  rays  of  the  rising  moon  had  begun  to  steal  through 
the  uncurtained  windows,  and  in  a  moment  all  was 
wrapped  in  darkness.  There  was  yet  a  little  stir  from 
the  sofa — something  of  undefinable  sound  ;  and  then 
a  deep,  dead  hush,  so  indescribably  oppressive  in  its 
continuance,  that,I  can  only  define  my  sensations  by 
those  awfully  descriptive  words, '  An  borrow  of  great 
darkness  fell  upon  me.' 

"  Those  of  my  companion  were  little  less  oppressive, 
I  believe,  for  putting  forth  her  hand  to  feel  for  mine, 
she  grasped  it  with  tremulous  force,  and  I  could  have 
fancied  I  heard  the  quick  pulsation  of  her  heart. 

"  What  would  we  not  have  given  to  have  called  for 
lights,  and  so  dissolved  that  strangely  morbid  spell ! 
But  the  relief  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  at  the  risk  of 


THE    EARLY    CALLED.  81 

arousing  the  dear  Agnes  from  that  quiet  slumber,  which 
might  prove  so  blessedly  refreshing.  And  after  a 
short  lapse  of  time,  every  moment  of  which  became 
more  insupportably  oppressive,  the  small  French  clock 
over  the  mantle-piece  chimed  the  third  quarter  of  the 
passing  hour,  and  just  then  the  volumed  clouds  rolled 
off,  and  the  broad  full  moon  came  forth,  resplendently 
glorious,  pouring  into  the  chamber  a  flood  of  light, 
that  streamed  through  the  window  opposite,  full  on 
the  still  hushed  and  motionless  group.  But  the  bright 
beams  striking  direct  on  the  child's  eye-lids,  aroused 
her  from  her  light  slumbers  ;  though,  long  habituated 
to  tender  caution,  the  affectionate  little  girl  moved 
softly,  even  in  her  half-awakened  state,  and  gently  rais- 
ing her  head  from  its  resting-place  on  Herbert's  knee, 
she  looked  up,  as  if  iftto  his  face,  but  his  head  had 
dropt  aside,  seemingly  weighed  down  by  weariness, 
on  the  pillow  of  her  still  sleeping  sister.  Long  and 
earnest  was  the  child's  upward  gaze.  But,  at  last,  she 
rose  up  slowly  and  noiselessly,  and  with  head  bent 
forward,  and  hands  hard  pressed  against  her  bosom, 
stood  with  eyes  still  riveted  as  if  by  fascination,  on  the 
faces  of  the  unconscious  sleepers.  Then,  half  turning 
towards  where  we  sat,  she  drew  a  short  quick  breath  ; 
and  with  yet  one  reverted  glance,  as  if  in  hesitation, 
stole  noiselessly  as  a  shadow  to  my  side,  and  whispered 
in  a  voice  tremulous  with  agitation — '  How  fast  asleep 
they  are ! — so  very  fast ! — and  Herbert,  do  you  know, 
must  have  dropt  off  so,  just  as  he  was  slipping  his  gold 
H  2 


82  THE    EARLY    CALLED. 

ring  on  sister  Agnes's  finger,  for  there  he  holds  it  still 
half  on — do  come  and  see.' 

"The  child's  words  thrilled  through  my  very  heart. 
To  start  up  before  they  were  well  uttered,  and  approach 
the  sofa,  and  bend  over  it,  in  nameless,  speechless 
agony,  was  the  action  of  a  moment.  There  they  were, 
as  described  by  Flora.  Hastily,  forgetful  of  all  caution, 
I  pressed  my  hand  upon  the  two  pale  faces,  that  lay 
almost  touching  each  other  on  the  pillow — hastily,  and 
without  fear  of  abruptly  wakening  them. 

"  There  needed  none  : — The  rude  touch  disturbed 
them  not.  They  had  already  awakened  in  Heaven.'* 


THE     STOIC  ; 

OB, 

MEMOIRS 

OF 

EURYSTHENE8     THE     ATHENIAN. 
BT  JANE  KINDERLEY  STANFORD. 


.;  : :  •"*:-• 

THE  following  tale  was  originally  written  without  the  most 
remote  idea  of  its  publication ;  its  composition  was  the  amuse- 
ment of  many  hours  of  loneliness  and  of  bodily  suffering, 
which  it  enabled  me  to  bear  without  weariness  and  impatience. 
The  kind  approbation  of  a  few  friends  induces  me  to  send  it 
forth  to  the  world ;  and  I  rely  upon  the  mercy  of  my  readers, 
not  to  judge  harshly  of  a  first  attempt  at  authorship. 

Norwich,  1834. 


CHAPTER  I. 

BORN  to  affluence,  and  endowed  with  much  mental 
and  personal  superiority,  the  hope  and  pride  of  a 
highly  gifted  father — the  idol  of  a  doating  mother — 
the  long  and  anxiously  wished-for  boy — I  might  be 
termed  fortunate,  and  my  destiny  one  of  happiness. 
And  so  it  might  have  been,  perhaps,  had  not  the 
power  of  my  mind  been  so  great,  or  had  the  sensi- 
bilities of  my  heart  been  less  acute.  As  it  was,  my 
childhood  was  alternate  sunshine  and  clouds, — my 
youth,  a  continual  struggle  between  the  intellect  and 
the  affections, — and  my  manhood,  what  was  my  man- 
hood ?  I  will  call  it  happy,  for  spite  of  all  my  trials, 
all  my  doubts,  and  all  my  fears,  /  was  happy ;  a 
beauteous  star  shed  its  soft  light  over  my  path,  and 
guided  my  old  age  to  bliss.  That  star  is  set,  but  the 
remembrance  of  its  loveliness  will  never  go  from  my 
mind ;  I  too  must  soon  follow  it.  Oh  !  may  I  indeed 
follow  it  to  that  Heaven  it  pointed  out  to  me ! 


86  THE    STOIC. 

I  was  born  in  the  eightieth  year  of  the  Christian 
JEra.  Of  my  earliest  years  I  remember  but  little. 
What  was  life  to  me  then?  A  never-ending  sun- 
beam, in  which  I  basked  contentedly  and  joyfully, 
enjoying  the  present  moment  without  thinking  of  the 
next.  And  I  had  cause  to  be  happy.  Wealth  pro- 
cured me  every  reasonable  luxury,  and  pain  had  never 
racked  my  body.  If  I  had  childish  vexations  (and 
what  child  has  not?)  I  wept  over  them;  but  the  me- 
mory of  them  passed  away  as  the  tear  dried  on  my 
cheek. 

Our  family  ranked  among  the  noblest,  as  well  as 
the  wealthiest  of  Athens.  My  grandfather  partook  of 
the  love  for  a  country  life,  which  was  so  eminently 
characteristic  of  a  Grecian  ;  and  my  father,  I  believe, 
inherited  this  feeling ;  for  although  his  habits  of  life 
daily  took  him  to  the  city,  our  residence  was  in  the 
country. 

Nor  was  it  surprising  that  it  should  be  so ;  for  there 
was  nothing  in  Athens  which  could  tempt  a  man  of 
independence  and  wealth  to  make  it  his  home.  The 
streets  were  strikingly  irregular ;  the  city  badly  pro- 
vided with  water,  and  the  houses,  with  a  very  few 
exceptions,  mean.  The  spaces  of  ground,  caused  by 
the  burning  or  pulling  down  of  houses,  which  had 
been  inhabited  by  those  citizens  accused  at  various 
periods  of  high  treason,  added  very  much  to  the  de- 
formity of  the  city ;  this  spoliation,  if  I  may  so  term 
it,  was  committed  by  order  of  the  government,  and  it 


THE    STOIC.  87 

was  not  permitted  to  rebuild  on  the  spot  rendered 
execrable  by  the  crime  of  the  former  possessor.  The 
Areopagus  also,  which  took  to  itself  the  immediate 
inspection  of  buildings,  was  a  declared  enemy  to 
every  innovation  of  the  civil  architecture ;  added  to 
which,  if  a  house  were  decorated  above  the  rest,  or 
even  carried  one  story  higher,  a  crowd  of  jealous  ob- 
servers suspected  that  this  ostentation  hid  a  pride  and 
feelings,  very  inconsistent  with  the  equality  of  a 
republic. 

The  extreme  magnificence  of  the  temples  and  public 
edifices,  rendered  the  appearance  of  the  houses  even 
more  abject  and  mean  than  they  really  were.  The 
eye  wandered  from  one  extreme  to  the  other,  and  as 
there  was  not  the  slightest  link  between  them,  there 
could  be  no  beauty,  no  pleasure  in  viewing  them  to- 
gether. The  three  hundred  statues  erected  on  the 
public  places,  and  the  porticoes  of  Athens,  could  not 
hide  the  deformity  of  the  streets. 

Such  was  Athens,  the  Great  Athens;  the  birth- 
place of  so  many  noble  men,  heroes,  and  philosophers ; 
the  nursery  of  the  arts  and  sciences,  the  place  where 
they  were  brought  to  perfection ;  and  the  point  from 
which  philosophy  spread  its  rays  over  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Such  was  it  when  I  lived ;  but  how  different 
may  it  be  in  your  time,  gentle  reader.  Time  works 
a  change  in  all  things.  Man  is  born  and  dies. — 
Empires  rise  and  fall — cities  are  built  where  once  the 
ocean  raged — and  the  waves  roll  over  what  once 
were  fields  luxuriant  in  verdure.  Athens,  therefore, 


88  THE    STOIC. 

may  centuries  hence,  be  more  worthy  the  spirits 
which  once  breathed  within  her  walls,  and  even  thought 
her  the  most  beautiful  city  in  the  world.  But  I  have 
described  my  native  city  as  I  knew  it ;  and  was  it 
surprising  that  the  nobility  of  Athens  entertained  an 
aversion  to  inhabit  a  city  where  their  houses  were 
confounded  with  those  of  the  populace  and  artizans? 
The  country  was  open  to  them,  and  there  they  erected 
their  mansions  according  to  their  "wealth  and  their 
tastes. 

My  father  had  very  early  shown  a  taste  for  philoso- 
phy, and  was  considered  the  most  learned  Stoic  of  his 
time ;  and  the  peculiar  tenets  of  his  sect  gave  him  an 
appearance  of  austerity  which  was  very  early  and 
deeply  impressed  upon  my  mind.  I  cannot  say  that 
I  ever  feared  my  father,  for  his  kindness  to  me  was 
constant  and  unchanging ;  but  I  had  a  veneration  for 
his  talents,  a  deference  for  his  superior  knowledge, 
and  an  admiration  of  his  character,  which  made  my 
feelings  for  him  very  different  to  those  I  entertained 
for  my  other  parent. 

My  mother  was  beautiful — and  though  possessing 
in  a  great  degree  this  attribute,  so  uncommon  among 
her  countrywomen,  for  in  Greece  the  males  engrossed 
personal  attraction  to  that  point,  that  if  there  appeared 
a  woman  endowed  with  even  a  moderate  quantity  of 
beauty,  her  name  was  sounded  from  north  to  south, 
from  east  to  west,  and  many  persons  would  undertake 
long  journeys  to  see  her;  but  although,  as  I  said,  this 
had  been  the  case  with  my  mother,  she  lived  an  en- 


THE    STOIC.  89 

tirely  secluded  life,  apparently  unwilling  to  show  her 
beauty  beyond  her  own  household.  I  never  knew  her 
in  good  health,  there  was  consequently  a  languor,  a 
helplessness  in  her  appearance,  which  won  pity  even 
from  a  child.  While  in  her  presence  I  learned  to 
curb  my  boisterous  mirth,  because  it  increased  her 
illness;  in  my  father's  company  my  spirits  were 
subdued,  because  his,  I  had  almost  said,  stern  counte- 
nance chilled  every  feeling  of  merriment. 

If  I  in  vain  expected  from  my  father  any  manifes- 
tation of  affection,  I  was  richly  repaid  for  my  disap- 
pointment in  the  doating  love  of  my  mother.  She 
caressed  me,  she  fondled  me — I  was  her  plaything, 
her  amusement,  her  joy — and  fully  did  I  return  her 
tenderness. 

I  watched  every  expression  of  her  pensive  but 
beautiful  countenance;  I  hastened  with  alacrity  to 
obey  her  most  slightly  expressed  request;  I  en- 
deavoured to  anticipate  her  wishes.  If  I  suffered 
aught,  I  hid  my  sufferings  from  her,  and  while  in  her 
presence  a  smile  was  ever  on  my  lips,  for  I  early 
learned  how  much  her  happiness  depended  upon 
mine. 

The  greatest  portion  of  my  time  was  spent  in  her 
society,  and  for  hours  have  I  seated  myself  at  her  feet, 
my  head  resting  upon  her  lap,  and  gazing  upon  the 
face  which  to  me  was  so  lovely,  so  beautiful,  by  the 
feeble  light  of  the  evening  moon,  while  she  would  run 
her  taper  fingers  through  my  curling  hair,  and  bless 
her  "sweet  boy."  This  was  bliss  to  my  young 

i 


90  THE    STOIC. 

heart,  a  heart  which  learnt  its  tenderness  in  such  hours 
as  these,  and  which  never  could  entirely  forget  it,  when 
maturer  intellect  and  cold  philosophy  taught  me  to 
look  upon  every  thing  with  indifference  and  apathy. 

As  my  father's  fortune  was  ample,  he  allowed  my 
mother  to  expend  her  dower  in  rebuilding  and  embel- 
lishing that  part  of  his  mansion  which  was  allotted  to 
her,  and  her  female  attendants,  and  was  called  the 
gynaceum. 

The  lower  room  or  hall,  which  was  the  spot  where 
my  mother  used  to  sit  during  the  hot  months  of 
summer,  was  open  on  two  sides  to  a  beautiful  and 
luxuriant  garden,  which  boasted  a  large. and  choice 
collection  of  fragrant  shrubs  and  flowers.  The  walls 
of  this  hall  were  of  pure  white  marble,  and  pillars  of 
the  same  material  of  the  elegant  Corinthian  order  of 
architecture,  supported  the  room  above,  which  was 
the  winter  sitting-room.  The  pavement  was  tessel- 
lated in  the  best  manner,  and  in  the  centre  was  an 
elegant  fountain,  whose  waters  cooled  and  refreshed 
the  air. 

The  winter  sitting-room  was  hung  with  rich  crim- 
son silk,  except  in  a  few  places,  where  the  walls  were 
adorned  with  figures  and  landscapes  well  executed  in 
fresco  ;  the  floor  was  of  cedar-wood  highly  polished ; 
the  couches  were  inlaid  with  gold,  and  covered  with 
crimson  silk,  richly  embroidered  in  gold.  This  room 
communicated  with  the  sleeping  apartments,  which 
were  fitted  up  in  the  same  style  of  magnificence, 
combining  luxury  and  comfort 


THE    STOIC.  91 

The  garden  was  spacious,  and  gradually  sloped  down 
to  the  banks  of  the  Ilyssus,  the  river,  which  among 
the  Athenians  is  sacred  to  the  muses  ;  and  from  dif- 
ferent spots  we  had  views  of  the  Temple  dedicated  to 
Diana  the  Huntress,  which  was  erected  on  its  opposite 
bank. 

An  elegant  mind  had  guided  my  mother  in  adorn- 
ing her  dwelling,  and  its  beauty  and  comfort  made 
her  the  envy  of  her  less  wealthy  or  less  tasteful  ac- 
quaintances. 

It  was  in  these  rooms  that  during  my  childhood  I 
enjoyed  the  greatest  happiness,  and  received  my 
earliest  instruction  from  my  dear  mother  and  her 
faithful  attendant  Zoe,  who  had  lived  with  her  before 
her  marriage,  and  had  performed  the  office  of  nurse  to 
me.  To  Zoe  I  was  an  object  of  interest  and  love,  and 
she  shared  with  my  mother  my  childish  affections,  and 
upon  every  occasion  was  exempt  from  the  teazing 
tricks  which  I  delighted  so  much  to  lavish  upon  the 
other  and  more  menial  attendants.  Still  was  I  a  pet 
and  a  plaything  with  them  all ;  and  these  hours  of  my 
earliest  childhood  gave  me  a  feeling  of  tenderness 
towards  the  female  sex,  which  I  never  utterly  lost, 
and  which  influenced  many  of  the  most  important 
acts  of  my  life ;  whether  I  was  the  happier  or  better 
for  this  influence,  let  my  Tale  disclose. 


CHAPTER  II. 

My  father,  in  telling  me  of  the  annihilation  of  man, 
first  alarmed  me  as  to  the  state  of  my  mother's  health. 
He  was  calm  when  he  mentioned  the  probability  of 
her  decease,  but  /  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  losing  my 
beloved  parent,  and  in  an  agony  of  grief  I  threw  my 
arms  round  her  neck,  and  exclaimed,  "You  shall  not 
die." 

She  pressed  me  to  her  bosom,  and  told  me  how 
useless  my  grief  was,  at  the  same  time  declaring  that 
the  approach  of  death  had  for  her  no  terrors.  "  You 
will  not  forget  me,  Eurysthenes,"  she  said,  tenderly 
kissing  my  cheek. 

I  vehemently  swore  by  Jupiter  and  all  the  gods, 
that  I  would  not ;  and  she  wept  over  me. 

From  that  moment  my  love  and  my  care  for  my 
parent  were  increased,  and  anxiety,  first  racked  my 
mind.  I  had  formed  no  idea  of  death ;  I  had  heard  of 
the  death  of  persons,  but  had  never  thought  upon  the 
subject.  What  was  life? — And  what  was  death? — 
And  why  was  my  mother  to  die,  so  young  and  beau- 
tiful, when  I  daily  saw  aged  and  decrepid  people 
living  on? — Could  nothing  avert  the  event  from  her? 
And  if  she  died  so  young,  so  might  I,  and  I  wished 
that  the  same  moment  would  end  our  lives.  My 


THE    STOIC.  93 

favourite  dog  had  died,  and  was  I  to  lose  my  mother 
by  the  same  means  ?  Surely  this  brought  a  familiarity, 
a  similitude  between  the  brutes  and  a  being  I  so  much 
loved ;  one  I  thought  so  superior  to  all  others,  which 
should  not  be.  My  dog  I  had  buried  in  the  earth, 
and  she  also  would  be  buried,  and  the  sole  difference 
between  their  graves  would  be,  the  marble  column 
which  would  mark  that  of  rny  mother.  'Tis  true, 
there  would  be  more  ceremony  in  consigning  the 
remains  of  my  parent  to  the  earth,  there  would  be 
oblations  and  prayers  to  the  gods  ;  but  of  what  use 
were  these  ceremonies,  if  they  did  not  save  the  body 
of  my  mother  from  being  debased  to  the  lowness  of 
the  animal  creation  ?  Of  what  use  were  the  oblations 
and  prayers,  if  she  derived  no  benefit  from  them,  and 
/no  consolation? 

I  thought  of  her  body  as  lying  for  ever  in  the  grave ; 
and  although  I  felt  that  she  would  not  be  taken  entirely 
from  me,  and,  that  resting  on  her  tomb,  I  might  still 
imagine  myself  almost  in  her  presence,  there  was  a 
dreadful  melancholy  in  knowing  that  she  would  be 
insensible  to  my  approach ;  that  I  might  call  upon  her, 
but  that  her  sweet  voice  would  never  again  answer  my 
calls  ;  that  I  might  weep  upon  her  grave,  but  that  her 
dear  arms  would  never  more  embrace  me  ;  that  never 
again  should  I  find  a  resting  place  for  my  troubled 
spirits  upon  her  bosom,  and  never  again  be  soothed 
into  peace  and  happiness  by  her  tender  endearments. 

My  uncertainty  as  to  the  nature  of  death,  my  dread 
of  its  approach,  and  my  bewildered  ideas  upon  the 
i2 


94  THE    STOIC. 

subject,  made  me  anxiously  watch  every  change  of  my 
dear  mother's  countenance.  Every  sigh  she  heaved 
I  feared  was  a  precursor  of  the  separation  I  so  much 
dreaded,  and  every  fainting  fit  I  thought  was  death. 
How  often  did  I  steal  on  tiptoe  to  her  bed-side,  and 
in  spite  of  the  whispered  remonstrances  of  Zoe,  rob 
my  hours  of  their  sleep,  to  watch  the  dear  slumberer ; 
and  when  I  fancied  she  was  about  to  wake,  glide  away, 
because  I  knew  she  would  chide  me  in  gentleness,  for 
not  having  retired  to  rest. 

With  agony  did  I  see  the  branches  of  acanthus  and 
laurel  placed  over  the  door  of  our  house,  in  token  of 
the  sickness  within.  My  mother's  long  tresses  of 
dark  hair  were  cut  off,  and  in  the  principal  hall  were 
consecrated  to  the  infernal  deities ;  and  most  fervently 
did  I  join  in  the  supplications  offered  to  Mercury 
when  the  pangs  of  death  approached.  In  all  the  reli- 
gious rites  practised  at  this  time  I  bore  a  part ;  I  knew 
not  precisely  for  what  they  were  performed,  but  they 
were  in  some  manner,  which  I  could  not  understand, 
connected  with  the  welfare  of  my  parent,  and  that 
was  sufficient  to  gain  my  attention  and  interest. 

My  mother  sunk  gradually  and  calmly,  her  beauty 
increasing  as  her  life  drew  to  its  close  ;  her  last  action 
was  to  press  my  hand  and  my  father's  together — her 
last  look  was  .mine — and  my  lips  received  her  last 
sigh— and  at  twelve  years  of  age  I  stood  beside  the 
death-bed  of  her  who  had  so  fondly  cherished  me  ; 
immoveable  in  my  sorrow,  unconscious  of  all  around 
me,  save  the  pale,  inanimate  form  on  which  my  eyes 


THE    STOIC.  95 

were  fixed.  The  wailing  and  lamenting  of  the  women 
at  length  aroused  me,  and  I  tore  myself  from  the  spot. 
My  lamentation  was  in  the  secret  recesses  of  my  heart, 
deep  and  lasting.  All  that  I  loved  was  gone  ;  I  had 
no  consolation,  no  comfort  left  me,  save  that  of  dwel- 
ling upon  her  tenderness  for  me. 

After  the  attendants  had  washed  and  anointed  the 
body,  and,  according  to  custom,  arrayed  it  in  a  splendid 
garment,  I  again  pressed  my  lips  upon  the  cheek,  and 
the  touch  spread  chilness  through  my  frame  to  my 
heart.  I  gathered  the  best  flowers  of  the  garden,  and 
such  as  had  been  her  favourites,  and  strewed  them 
upon  the  bier  ;  placing  upon  her  breast  one  of  those 
locks  of  my  hair  which  she  had  so  often  delighted  to 
twist  round  her  fingers,  and  which  were  now  cut  off 
as  an  outward  sign  of  mourning. 

I  had  frequently  in  my  visits  to  my  mother's  apart- 
ments, surprised  her  and  Zoe  reading  a  book,  which, 
upon  my  appearance,  was  invariably  shut,  and  put  into 
a  little  ebony  chest  inlaid  with  silver,  and  the  key 
being  turned  upon  it,  was  deposited  in  the  pocket  of 
my  mother.  In  early  years,  when  literature  was  a 
task  rather  than  a  pleasure  to  me,  this  circumstance 
was  almost  unheeded  by  me  ;  but  as  I  increased  in 
years,  and  knowledge  became  interesting  to  me,  my 
curiosity  was  awakened,  and  I  frequently  asked  my 
mother  to  tell  me  what  it  was  about,  and  to  let  me 
read  it.  This,  however,  she  constantly  refused  to  do, 
at  first  evading  my  questions  ;  but  as  they  became 
more  importunate,  she  told  me  I  was  not  old  enough 


96  THE    STOIC. 

to  understand  her  studies  ;  and  if  I  endeavoured  to 
extract  from  her  a  promise  to  let  me  see  it  when  I 
should  be  older,  she  would  give  it  conditionally,  the 
fulfilment  resting  upon  my  father's  approbation.  Thus 
my  mother's  book  became  to  me  an  object  of  intense 
curiosity  and  interest  ;  a  something  with  which  in- 
crease of  years  would  make  me  acquainted,  a  pleasure 
promised  for  the  future. 

After  her  death,  when  my  father,  in  examining  the 
different  chests,  came  to  open  the  small  ebony  one 
where  she  had  kept  those  articles  which  she  most 
valued,  I  anxiously  looked  for  the  book,  and  cannot 
express  my  surprise,  consternation,  and  grief,  at  not 
perceiving  it. 

I  looked  towards  Zoe,  as  if  expecting  that  she  would 
explain  why  it  was  not  there ;  but  with  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  different  articles  as  they  were  separately  taken 
from  out  the  chest,  she  either  did  not  understand  the 
silent  question  I  had  put,  or  if  she  did  understand  it, 
she  was  determined  not  to  answer  it. 

Resolved  not  to  be  so  foiled,  I  said,  "  Zoe,  where  is 

the ."  She  would  not  let  me  proceed,  but 

with  a  secret  sign  to  me,  she  replied  in  a  hasty,  bus- 
tling manner,  "  Here  is  the  little  bracelet  you  wished 
to  see  ;  it  is  the  last  my  dear  mistress  wore." 

I  did  not  attempt  to  repeat  my  inquiry  then,  for  it 
seemed  unpleasant  to  Zoe  ;  therefore  in  the  hope  of 
gaining  a  more  direct  answer,  when  we  should  be  alone, 
I  remained  silent.  An  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her 
soon  offered  itself,  but  she  positively  refused  to  give 


THE    STOIC.  97 

me  any  information  upon  the  subject,  adding  that  my 
mother,  in  her  last  illness  had  made  her  promise  not 
to  give  me  the  book,  without  the  consent  of  my  father. 
She  would  not  even  give  me  an  idea  of  its  contents, 
and  even  hinted  that  she  thought  it  very  improbable 
that  my  father  would  ever  suffer  me  to  read  it. 

I  thought  Zoe  was  unkind  to  me  in  this  instance  ; 
in  every  other  whim  and  caprice  she  fully  indulged 
me,  and  at  all  other  times  I  felt  that  I  had  still  a  kind 
and  loving  friend  left  to  me. 


CHAPTER  III. 

EDUCATION  in  Athens  was  conducted  upon  a 
general  plan,  to  which  the  parents  of  children  con- 
formed, with  very  slight  exceptions.  Boys  till  the 
age  of  seven  years  were  taught  to  read  by  the  Gram- 
matists ;  they  were  then  taught  music  by  the  Citharis- 
tes ;  and  after  their  thirteenth  year  it  was  usual  for 
them  to  be  consigned  to  the  care  of  the  Pedotribes  to 
learn  the  gymnastic  exercises.  And  so  fascinating 
and  delightful  were  the^e  exercises  to  some  of  our 
robust  youth,  that  they  delighted  to  signalize  them- 
selves in  wrestling,  pugilism,  and  races  of  every  kind. 

I  have  said  that  my  mother  was  more  beautiful  than 
the  generality  of  the  Grecian  females.  A  perfect 
symmetry  of  form  was  one  characteristic  of  her  love- 
liness, and  this  I  inherited,  joined  to  a  firmness  and 
fullness  properly  belonging  to  a  male.  I  knew  that 
my  father  delighted  in  my  personal  advantages,  al- 
though he  had  never  so  openly  praised  my  handsome 
features  and  figure  as  my  dear  mother  had  done. 
Perhaps  it  was  as  well  for  me  that  he  did  not,  other- 
wise I  might  have  become  vain  and  effeminate ;  as  it 
was,  I  loved  to  hear  my  mother  praise  me,  but  all  the 
vanity  which  might  have  been  raised  by  her  encomi- 
ums, was  quickly  banished  by  the  more  judicious 


THE    STOIC.  99 

conduct  of  my  father,  who  early  instilled  into  my 
mind,  the  great  superiority  of  mental  over  bodily 
perfections.  Nevertheless  I  am  inclined  to  think, 
that  his  unwillingness  to  permit  me  to  follow  the 
gymnastic  exercises  beyond  a  certain  point,  arose  from 
the  fear  of  injuring  the  contour  of  my  form. 

He  was  aware,  that  the  nervous  system  of  man  is 
capable  of  a  certain  degree  of  tension,  only.  Beyond 
that  point,  it  loses  in  one  part  what  it  gains  in  another. 
In  boxers  the  hands  are  strengthened  at  the  expense 
of  the  feet ;  and  in  racers  the  feet  gain  what  the  arms 
lose.  The  equilibrium  of  the  strength  in  all  parts,  is 
destroyed  by  a  particular  force,  which  being  purely 
made,  soon  degenerates  into  weakness.  The  juices  of 
the  frame  fly  to  those  parts  which  are  most  and  con- 
tinually in  motion ;  and  where  this  is  not  the  case,  the 
too  great  perspiration  which  violent  exercises  induce, 
enfeebles  the  human  body,  by  taking  from  it  a  large 
quantity  of  the  moisture  necessary  for  its  preservation. 

I  therefore  did  not  bestow  much  time  on  this  branch 
of  my  education  ;  I  learnt  to  swim,  to  ride,  and  a  very 
little  pugilism.  But  my  time  was  almost  wholly 
devoted  to  study.  I  passed  successively  under  the 
government  of  the  Grammarians,  Critics,  and  Geome- 
tricians, and  then  came  the  studies  under  the  Philoso- 
phers. 

The  Grecian  Philosophers  had  a  stronger  aversion 
than  other  Athenians  to  live  in  cities ;  but  as  it  was 
not  convenient  to  be  far  from  the  capital,  which  was 
the  depot  for  the  instruments  and  assistance  which  the 


100  THE    STOIC. 

arts  and  sciences  required,  they  settled  themselves  in 
the  environs  of  Athens;  and  their  gardens  extended 
from  the  shores  of  the  Ilyssus  to  those  of  the  Cephisis. 
The  Epicureans  were  established  in  the  centre;  Plato's 
disciples  to  the  north ;  and  those  of  Aristotle  to  the 
south.  A  hedge  of  myrtles,  or  a  row  of  olive  trees, 
forming  the  only  division  between  those  schools,  so 
much  at  variance  in  the  doctrines  they  taught  to  their 
followers ;  yet,  as  all  were  situated  on  the  same  soil,  so 
all  their  precepts  tended  to  gain  one  end,  perfect  good- 
ness, wisdom,  and  happiness.  They  were  untouched 
by  the  perturbations  of  the  passions  ;  peace  never 
forsook  their  breasts  ;  each  day  was  to  them  a  day  of 
enjoyment;  and  the  solution  of  a  problem  was  a 
matter  for  rejoicing.  Seated  in  the  shade  of  their 
gardens,  they  smiled  to  see  a  crowd  of  fanatics,  and 
ambitious  men,  agitated,  like  the  reeds  by  the  least 
breath  of  wind,  by  the  slightest  ruffle  of  the  passions. 

But  my  father  was  a  Stoic;  and  his  school  was 
situated  in  the  middle  of  Athens,  under  the  Portico 
painted  by  Micon  and  Polygnotus  and  called  the 
Psecile.  Instead  of  seeking  solitude  like  the  other 
sects,  the  Stoics  chose  the  centre  of  the  city,  where 
they  were  continually  surrounded  by  the  noisy  popu- 
lace. Here  my  father  taught,  and  here  I  learnt  my 
philosophy.  And  it  undoubtedly  required  more  power 
over  the  mind  to  fix  it  to  the  contemplation  of 
abstruse  objects,  when  liable  to  the  bustle,  noise,  and 
interruption  of  a  busy  multitude,  than  when,  secluded 
in  the  shade  of  trees,  there  was  scarcely  the  shaking 


THE    STOIC.  101 

of  a  leaf,  or  the  humming  of  an  insect  to  distract  the 
attention,  and  call  the  mind  from  its  profound  contem- 
plation. 

My  studies  now  became  abstruse  and  deep.  My 
father  conversed  with  me  as  with  an  equal  in  years, 
knowledge,  and  understanding.  And  as  a  bust  of  Zeno, 
the  founder  of  the  Stoic  Philosophy,  stood  before  us, the 
cherished  ornament  of  my  father's  study,  he  taught 
me  to  believe  in  his  tenets.  He  taught  me  that  God 
was  pure  ether,  or  fire,  inhabiting  the  exterior  surface 
of  the  heavens,  that  he  was  underived,  but  indefinite. 
He  taught  me  that  the  agency  of  the  Deity  was  merely 
an  active  motion  of  the*  celestial  fire;  that  Providence 
was  only  absolute  necessity.  He  assured  me  that 
virtue  was  the  only  true  wisdom  ;  and  happiness  the 
end  and  motive  of  our  lives.  He  urged  me,  as  a  means 
to  attain  perfect  wisdom  and  happiness,  to  subdue  all 
my  passions  and  emotions,  to  be  alike  insensible  to 
pain  or  pleasure.  But  when  he  told  me  that  death 
was  only  an  interruption  oflife^  that  the  soul  was 
material  and  remained  with  the  body,  till  fate,  or 
necessity,  and  the  law  of  nature,  should  renew  life, 
I  could  not  conquer  the  thrill  of  joy  which  ran  through 
my  heart,  at  the  hope  that  my  mother  would  again 
live.  Though  uncertain  when  she  would  return  to 
life;  and  if  I  should  ever  again  enjoy  her  company,  I 
loved  to  imagine  the  happiness  which  might  be  mine 
once  more. 

But  the  school  to  which  I  now  belonged,  and  the 
philosophers  who  were  now  to  be  my  guides,  taugbt 

K 


102  THE    STOIC. 

indifference  to  pleasure,  and  insensibility  to  pain. 
And  so  well  apparently  did  I  follow  their  instructions, 
that  my  father  expressed  his  entire  approbation  of 
my  conduct  Alas,  he  knew  not  the  misery  of  my 
mind  !  My  feelings  were  by  nature  acute,  my  passions 
strong,  and  my  affections  deep.  I  endeavoured,  I 
laboured  to  overcome  my  emotions,  and  was  chagrined 
to  find  it  not  the  work  of  a  moment.  Every  day 
tried  the  strength  of  my  philosophy,  and  I  was  per- 
petually at  war  with  my  feelings,  consequently  I  was 
in  a  constant  internal  agitation.  I  knew  that  I  should 
not  be  blessed  with  calmness  and  peace,  till  my  phi- 
losophy gained  the  ascendency,  and  by  annihilating 
every  passion  and  emotion,  bring  my  mind  to  that 
quiet  state,  which  it  was  the  study  of  a  wise  man's 
life  to  arrive  at,  and  which  alone  could  produce  the 
happiness  after  which  my  soul  so  anxiously  aspired. 

It  was  no  merit  of  my  own  that  I  gained  some 
empire  over  the  softer  affections  of  my  heart  ;  from 
no  one  now  did  I  receive  a  show  of  that  tenderness 
which  had  been  lavished  upon  me  in  infancy.  My 
ears  no  longer  heard  expressions  of  love  ;  the  arms  of 
arv  endearing  mother  were  no  longer  thrown  around 
me  ;  my  forehead  was  now  never  pressed  by  the  lips 
of  an  affectionate  being  All  my  tender  emotions  and 
feelings  were  therefore,  for  want  of  encouragement, 
thrown  back  upon  my  heart,  useless,  unblest,  and 
unblessing.  And  if  they  existed,  it  seemed  to  be  only 
in  the  moments  when  I  thought  of  my  beauteous 
parent  j  upon  nothing  could  they  rest  but  upon  the 


THE    STOIC.  103 

memory  of  her;  but  so  intimately  were  they  connected 
with  that,  that  while  my  mind  retained  the  power  of 
recalling  the  past,  my  heart  would  beat  with  fond  but 
vain  affections  still. 

At  those  times,  when  my  mind  relaxed  from  its 
sternness,  and  my  philosophy  was  scarcely  thought  of, 
it  was  my  delight  to  wander  in  my  mother's  apart- 
ments, and  to  tend  the  flowers  and  shrubs  in  which 
she  had  taken  so  much  interest  and  pleasure.  The 
same  anemonies  which  she  had  planted,  and  which 
were  her  favourite  flowers,  were  increased  with  the 
utmost  care  ;  the  pomegranate  which  had  been  the 
pride  of  her  parterre,  was  multiplied  ;  but  more  espe- 
cially was  the  myrtle  tree,  under  which  we  had  been 
so  often  seated  together,  the  object  of  my  attention  ; 
every  dead  leaf  within  my  reach  was  carefully  plucked 
off,  and  every  withered  branch  lopped  ;  not  a  faded 
flower  was  allowed  to  sully  the  whiteness  of  its  sheet 
of  blossoms.  And  this  was  my  occupation  at  those 
times  when  my  heart  dwelt  with  most  tenderness  and 
sorrow  upon  the  beloved  parent  I  had  lost. 

I  was  thus  employed  one  evening,  when  my  philo- 
sophy scarce  controlled  my  feelings,  and  believing 
myself  to  be  unobserved  and  alone,  I  indulged  in  de- 
lightful retrospections  of  the  past ;  when  Zoe,  who  had 
stolen  upon  me  unheard,  said, "That  was  her  favourite 
tree,  Eurysthenes  ;  how  often  has  she  talked  with  me 
under  it,  talked  of  you,  and  prayed  for  your  happiness 
then  and  for  ever.  I  can  never  forget  the  sweet  con- 
versations we  have  had  upon  this  spot." 


104  THE    STOIC. 

The  melancholy  tone  of  the  faithful  creature  brought 
the  tears  to  my  eyes  ;  but  ashamed  of  my  weakness, 
I  turned  my  head  from  her  that  she  might  not  see 
them.  But  she  knew  I  wept,  for  she  said  "  Aye  weep, 
do  weep.  It  is  no  sin  to  weep  for  the  loss  of  so  much 
goodness.  J  have  lost  the  best  friend  I  ever  had,  and 
you  have  lost  a  fond  mother.  Oh !  you  know  not 
what  you  have  lost,  Eurysthenes.  But  I  will  pray 
that  you  may  be  happy,  and  that  her  loss  may  be 
restored  to  you  in  some  other  way.  You  are  young, 

and  have  a  long  life  before  you  ;  pray ."  She 

hesitated  a  moment,  then  added,  "  may  it  be  as  happy 
as  hers  was ! " 

"But,"  I  said,  "Zoe,  she  will  live  again  ;  my  phi- 
losophy teaches  me  that  death  is  merely  an  inter- 
ruption, not  an  end  of  life.  Oh !  think  of  our  hap- 
piness when  we  shall  meet  again." 

"  Yes,"  said  Zoe,  solemnly  and  mournfully,  "  she 
will  live  again,  but  not  as  you  imagine." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  shall  I  not  again  be  blest 
with  her  society,  her  love?" 

"I  know  not,"  replied  Zoe,  "it  is  not  for  me  to 
give  you  instruction  on  this  subject.  But,  my  dear 
young  master,  do  not  stifle  your  grief,  give  it  vent  ; 
it  is  natural ;  a  gush  of  tears  will  relieve  your  heart." 

"Nay,  Zoe,  it  is  unmanly,  it  is  worse  than  unmanly, 
thus  to  lament  at  the  workings  of  a  fate  we  cannot 
control.  I  will,  I  must  conquer  this  weakness  ;  it  is 
the  desire  of  my  heart  to  overcome  weakness  of  every 
kind,  and  to  become  indifferent  to  every  thing.  In 


THE    STOIC.  105 

that  indifference  consist  the  highest  wisdom  and  hap- 
piness of  man." 

Zoe  shook  her  head  mournfully,  "  And  will  you 
forget  your  mother,  and  become  indifferent  to  her 
memory  ?" 

I  looked  reproachfully  at  her,  and  plucking  a  small 
sprig  of  the  myrtle,  placed  it  in  the  folds  of  my  dress 
on  my  bosom.  She  understood  my  answer. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


I  HAD  already  been  enrolled  among  the  citizens  of 
Athens,  and  rejoiced  that  I  could  in  truth  boast  a  fel- 
lowship with  the  heroes  of  my  country,  in  whose 
daring  and  brave  exploits  I  delighted,  and  with  the 
sages,  whose  wisdom  I  venerated,  and  whose  sanctity 
of  life  I  wished  to  imitate.  But  a  more  glorious  and 
delightful  event  awaited  me  in  my  initiation  in  the 
Eleusinian  mysteries,  a  custom  which  was  now  fall- 
ing into  disuse  among  the  Athenians,  but  which  my 
father,  who  as  much  as  was  in  his  power  still  adhered 
to  the  ancient  customs  of  his  country,  wished  me  to 
follow,  and  I  was  proud  that  the  knowledge  of  a  man 
would  be  imparted  to  me. 

My  father,  ever  anxious  to  improve  my  understand- 
ing, was  unwilling  that  I  should  enter  into  these 
ceremonies,  as  some  of  my  fellow-countrymen  did, 
thoughtlessly,  and  without  being  acquainted  with  their 
true  meaning.  He,  therefore,  for  some  time,  made  it 
the  subject  of  our  private  conversations,  explaining  to 
me  every  pirticular  relating  to  them. 

He  told  me  that  the  lesser  mysteries  were  designed 
by  the  ancient  theologists,  the  founders  of  them,  to 
signify  occultly  the  condition  of  the  impure  soul 
irrvested  with  a  terrene  body,  and  merged  in  a  material 


THE    STOIC.  107 

substance.   And,  as  intimating  that  the  life  of  the  soul, 
when  merged  in  the  body,  is  nothing  but  a  dream. 

I  was  thus,  by  the  assistance  of  my  father's  explana- 
tion, led  to  consider  these  mysteries,  not  merely  as  the 
worship  of  Ceres  and  Proserpine,  conducted  with  great 
and  imposing  show,  but  was  able  to  apply  every  part 
of  the  ceremony  to  the  connection  of  the  soul  with  the 
body.  And  far  from  being  terrified  at  the  loud  noises 
which,  in  the  initiation,  assailed  our  ears,  at  the  earth- 
quakes which  we  witnessed,  or  the  demons  which 
appeared  to  us,  I  considered  them  all  as  representing 
the  descent  of  the  soul  into  a  corporeaLnature ;  and  the 
omnifdrm  and  horrible  monsters,  I  looked  upon  as 
signifying  the  various  vices  of  our  irrational  part. 

The  mysteries,  therefore,  were  highly  interesting  to 
me ;  and  while  many  youths  of  my  own  age  were  en- 
joying the  mere  splendour  and  novelty  of  the  ceremony 
of  their  initiation,  it  was  to  me  an  event  of  the  utmost 
consequence,  and  induced  me  to  profound  thought  and 
study.  I  felt  more  strongly  than  ever  the  debasement 
of  my  soul  while  connected  with  my  body  and  the 
vain  passions  of  my  corporeal  nature ;  and  the  desire 
to  make  them  subservient  to  the  high  and  pure  nature 
of  my  soul,  led  me  to  love  my  stoic  philosophy,  which 
taught  me  the  means  of  attaining  that  end. . 

If  the  shows  of  the  Lesser  Mysteries,  which  were 
intended  to  represent  the  miserable  and  unhappy  con- 
dition of  the  soul  while  subservient  to  the  body,  were 
thus  so  deeply  interesting  to  me,  how  much  more  so, 
were  the  Greater,  which  imtimated  by  mystic  and 


108  THE    STOIC. 

splendid  visions,  the  felicity  of  the  soul,  when  purified 
from  the  defilements  of  a  material  nature.  And  it  was 
with  the  utmost  impatience  that  I  awaited  the  time  of 
my  initiation  into  them.  The  month  of  Boedromion, 
(parts  of  September  and  October,)  at  length  arrived, 
;ind  with  joy  I  accompanied  my  father  to  Eleusis. 
The  representation  by  these  Mysteries  of  the  beatific 
state  of  the  soul,  in  the  Elysian  Fields,  now  exalted  me 
as  much  as  I  had  felt  debased  by  the  contemplation  of 
the  terrors  and  miseries  of  Hades.  I  was  possessed  of 
a  soul,  and  it  was  to  be  the  work  of  myself  to  gain  its 
admittance  into  that  happy  region.  Then,  away  all  ye 
passions,  pride,  anger,  love ;  I  scorn  your  power !  the 
purity  of  my  soul  shall  quench  your  dazzling  but  fal- 
lacious brightness. 

Taught,  as  I  had  been  almost  from  my  infancy,  the 
immense  power  and  value  of  the  intellectual  part  of  our 
nature,  and  urged  by  the  exercise  of  that  power,  to 
elevate  my  soul  above  all  earthly  feelings  and  domin- 
ion, was  it  wonderful  that  after  my  initiation,  Ceres 
and  Proserpine  (the  former  as  the  emblem  of  the 
intellect,  and  the  latter  as  that  of  the  soul,}  became  my 
favourite  goddesses,  that  their  images  were  placed  in 
my  little  study  as  its  greatest  ornaments,  and  that 
they  shared  more  of  my  attention  and  homage  than 
Minerva,  the  tutelary  goddess  of  my  country. 

Still  I  was  not  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  state  of 
my  mind.  There  was  something  yet  wanting  to  com- 
plete the  happiness  I  sought  for.  My  father  gave  me 
praise  and  encouragement  as  regarded  my  studies ;  but 


THE    STOIC.  109 

I  was  not  happy,  and  as  I  felt  that  I  was  not  so,  an  un- 
bidden but  almost  unchecked  sigh  would  burst  from 
my  bosom  to  the  memory  of  my  dear  mother. 

I  had  no  intimates;  I  did  not  enter  into  the  pleasures 
of  my  age ;  I  seemed  in  truth  abstracted  from  the 
world,  almost  from  all  realities,  and  buried  in  the 
doubts  and  hopes  of  my  philosophy.  For  there  were 
moments  when  I  doubted ;  moments  when,  with  a 
recklessness  which  I  afterwards  blamed,  I  almost  de- 
termined to  relinguish  the  tenets  of  the  Stoic,  nay,  to 
discontinue  the  study  of  all  philosophy,  and  to  give 
loose  to  my  inclinations  and  passions.  This  perhaps 
arose  from  the  conversation  of  my  almost  only  friend, 
and  certainly  my  most  intimate  acquaintance. 

He  was  an  Epicurean,  that  is,  he  had  been  educated 
in  that  school,  and  had  believed  what  had  been  taught 
him,  for  he  had  never  troubled  his  mind  with  study. 
We  were  accustomed  to  compare  the  leading  princi- 
ples of  our  different  schools ;  and  shall  I  own  that  there 
were  moments  when  I  almost  yielded  to  the  arguments, 
he  adduced  in  favour  of  his,  and  was  somewhat  dazzled 
by  the  picture  he  drew  of  his  happiness. 

Happiness,  perfect  and  uninterrupted,  was  the  aim 
of  my  philosophical  researches,  the  desire  of  my  soul. 
I  looked  at  the  smiling  countenance  of  my  friend,  and 
contrasted  it  with  the  solemn  expression  of  my  own.  I 
thought  of  all  the  indulgencies  he  allowed  himself,  and 
of  my  own  austere  life ;  the  pains  it  cost  me  to  deaden 
every  feeling,  which  it  was  his  study  to  enjoy  and  to 
increase.  I  was  young,  and  all  this  made  an  impres- 


110  THE    STOIC. 

sion  upon  me ;  for  a  moment  I  wavered.  Then  again 
I  called  to  mind  the  high  and  ennobling  studies  I  pur- 
sued, and  I  felt  that  if  light  and  enlivening  pleasure 
were  not  mine,  that  my  mode  of  life,  and  my  opinions 
raised  my  soul  far  above  his ;  and  I  in  my  turn  reasoned 
with  Alcmenes,  upon  the  folly  of  delivering  his  soul 
and  existence  up  to  sensual  pleasures,  and  endeavoured 
to  impress  upon  him  the  superiority  of  my  belief  over 
his. 

"  Nay,  Eurysthenes,"  he  would  say,  "  you  are  the 
very  Prince  of  Stoics,  but  the  Epicurean  philosophy 
is  best  adapted  to  my  temperament.  I  cannot  reason 
upon  any  thing ;  a  life  of  ease  and  pleasure  is  fitted  for 
me,  and  I  yield  to  my  feelings." 

I  reminded  him,  that  the  wine-cup  would  at  length 
be  drained,  that  there  were  times  when  objects  were 
wanted  to  create  his  mirth,  and  that  beauty  faded  in 
his  grasp. 

"  Then,  we  will  fill  the  cup  to  the  brim  again,  we 
will  quickly  find  other  beauties,  and  laugh  to  think 
that  we  can  so  soon  renew  our  pleasures." 

"  Still,"  I  said,  "  there  will  be  a  moment  of  cessation 
of  pleasure.  How  much  better  then  is  it  to  steel 
yourself  against  all  its  fascinations,  and  by  regarding 
every  thing  with  indifference,  never  to  receive  pain  or 
pleasure  from  any  object,  belonging  to  us  externally ; 
but  by  making  our  internal  powers,  our  intellect  and 
our  soul,  the  constant  objects  of  our  attention,  endea- 
vour to  ensure  our  happiness." 

*<Ah !"  Alemenes  would  say,  smiling," we  are  both 


THE    STOIC.  Ill 

travelling  to  the  Elysian  Fields  ;  my  path  is  strewed 
with  flowers,  yours  is  rough,  hard,  and  to  me  far  from 
enticing." 

And  I  could  never  reason  him  out  of  his  pleasures, 
nor  could  I  entirely  persuade  myself  that  he  was 
wrong.  There  was  something  in  my  nature  which 
warred  against  my  intellect,  a  discontentedness  with 
myself  while  I  owned  the  beauty  of  my  philosophy  ; 
a  restlessness  of  thought  and  of  feeling,  which  conti- 
nually urged  me  on  to  attain  bliss,  but  which  was  as 
constantly  unsatisfied. 


CHAPTER  V. 


I  HAD  very  early  been  betrothed  to  my  nearest 
relative,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-four  I  yielded  to 
my  father's  wish,  and  married.  I  considered  this 
event  as  one  of  necessity,  and  did  not  expect  from  it 
any  great  increase  of  happiness.  It  was  well  for  me 
that  I  did  not,  otherwise  I  should  have  felt  the  events 
of  my  married  life  too  deeply,  to  have  borne  them  so 
patiently  as  my  indifference  to  my  wife  enabled  me  to 
do. 

As  at  the  death  of  my  mother,  so  also  at  my  mar- 
riage, every  ceremony  enjoined  by  the  custom  and 
religion  of  my  country  was  strictly  observed.  Aga- 
thonica  had  been  presented  to  Diana,  and  had  given 
her  tribute  of  curiosities  to  that  goddess  ;  and  the 
usual  sacrifices  and  oblations  were  made  to  the  gods. 

It  was  determined  by  those  friends  who  had  the 
arrangement  of  every  thing  on  that  eventful  day,  that 
our  wedding  should  be  as  splendid  as  possible  ;  and 
Agathonica  did  not  make  any  objection  to  such  being 
done,  for  I  had  obtained  a  name  in  Athens,  and  she 
felt  some  pride  in  showing  that  she  was  connected 
with  me  ;  added  to  which,  she  had  already,  on  many 
occasions,  manifested,  as  far  as  a  secluded  female  could 


THE    STOIC.  113 

do,  a  love  of  splendour  and  ostentation,  and  a  desire 
to  enjoy  to  the  full  the  luxuries  which  our  joint  wealth 
could  procure  her. 

I  was  passive ;  my  friends  did  with  me  as  they 
pleased,  I  assented  to  all  they  proposed,  but  I  sug- 
gested nothing  ;  and  I  attired  myself  in  the  splendid 
garment  prepared  for  me,  with  as  little  pride  and 
pleasure  as  I  put  on  my  usual  every-day  habiliments. 
To  one  thing  only  did  I  pay  any  regard,  it  was  that 
my  garland  might  be  of  anemonies  and  violets  inter- 
mixed ;  these  I  gathered  myself,  and  gave  to  my  bride 
a  similar  garland  ;  and  when  I  saw  it  bound  upon  her 
forehead,  I  felt  it  to  be  the  first  act  which  installed  her 
in  the  apartments  of  my  mother,  who  had  planted 
those  flowers  in  the  garden  from  which  I  had  gathered 
them.  And  I  pictured  to  myself  a  happiness  awaiting 
me,  something  like  that  of  my  boyhood. 

In  the  evening  the  bride  was  conducted  home  in  a 
chariot  by  torch-light,  and  attended  by  singers  and 
dancers.  We  had  some  distance  to  travel,  her  father's 
house  being  situated  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  city  to 
ours.  At  the  end  of  the  journey,  the  axle-tree  of  the 
carriage  was  broken,  and  burnt,  to  signify  that  the 
bride  would  never  again  return  to  her  former  home  ; 
and  we  entered  our  house  amidst  a  shower  of  figs  and 
various  fruits,  which  our  friends  plentifully  poured 
upon  us. 

For  three  days  I  was  compelled  to  act  the  bride- 
groom, but  rejoiced  that  the  fourth  day  left  me  free  to 


114  THE    STOIC. 

follow  my  former  studies,  and  usual  manner  of  passing 
my  time. 

I  was  not  an  inattentive  husband,  though  perhaps 
owing  to  my  tenets  of  philosophy,  I  was  not  a  loving 
one.  My  wife  was  to  me  the  same  as  other  women  : 
I  had  not  married  her  from  affection,  for  I  not  only 
never  had  felt  love,  but  considered  it  as  a  feeling  and 
passion  which  debased  the  soul  of  man.  But  the  time 
I  devoted  to  relaxation  and  amusement  was  spent  in 
her  society,  and  as  I  considered  myself  free  to  act  as 
I  pleased,  I  left  her  the  same  liberty,  contenting  my- 
self with  the  idea  that  she  had  the  same  means  of  being 
happy  that  my  mother  had  possessed.  I  never  con- 
trolled her  wishes  in  any  respect  ;  her  person  was 
adorned  with  jewels,  and  she  had  numerous  attendants 
to  wait  upon  her  ;  she  had  beautiful  apartments  to 
inhabit,  and  wealth  at  her  command  ;  the  sole  object 
of  her  life  was  to  amuse  herself.  Yet  all  this  did  not 
satisfy  her. 

Every  kind  of  luxury  directs  itself  necessarily 
towards  two  objects,  which  are  often  combined  toge- 
ther ;  that  is,  ostentation  and  the  pleasure  of  the  senses. 
I  have  said  that  Agathonica  loved  show  and  ostentation, 
and  as  I  never  restrained  her  actions,  she  took  every 
advantage  of  the  many  opportunities  which  the  reli- 
gious feasts  and  processions  gave  of  displaying  her 
wealth.  Her  chariot  was  magnificent  and  sumptuous, 
drawn  by  white  mules,  which  were  procured  with 
great  difficulty  and  at  much  expense,  from  Pelopones- 
sus  ;  but  they  were  at  that  time  the  test  of  property, 


THE    STOIC.  115 

-"** •  *     "      *          •    ~  "'-'.'  •     *  * 

the  envied  acm6  of  fashion,  and  Agathonica  could  not 
appear  without  them.  In  this  equipage  she,  soon  after 
the  birth  of  our  first  and  only  child,  went  to  the  mys- 
teries of  Eleusis,  which  was  the  spot  where  all  met 
for  pleasure  and  enjoyment,  and  there  she  formed  an 
acquaintance  with  Maximinian,  the  Roman  Governor 
of  Athens.  And  in  a  very  short  time  after  she  left 
my  society  for  his. 

For  a  moment  I  was  chafed  by  the  circumstance, 
but  it  was  only  for  a  moment,  and  I  very  soon  regained 
my  Stoical  apathy.  Indeed  I  endeavoured  to  palliate 
her  conduct  ;  I  considered  the  female  mind  as  inca- 
pable of  understanding  philosophy,  and  being  quite 
aware  that  the  worship  and  belief  of  my  country  was 
very  little  calculated  to  guide  the  conduct,  taught  as 
it  was  by  fables  and  representations  revolting  very 
often  to  decency,  I  thought  of  her  failing  rather  with 
pity  than  otherwise. 

Agathonica  left  me  my  child,  and  I  scarcely  knew 
whether  to  rejoice  at  the  circumstance  or  not.  Zoe's 
look  was  sorrowful  as  she  put  my  infant  into  my  arms ; 
I  almost  shrank  from  taking  her.  Why  should  I 
cherish  her  ?  She  might  also  deceive  me.  Yet,  oh  ! 
that  face,  so  innocent,  so  fair,  so  like  my  mother's ! 

"Yes,  yes,  I  must,  I  will  love  you,  Hermione,"  I 
said,  as  she  smiled  upon  me,  and  for  an  instant  I 
pressed  her  to  my  heart.  "  Take  her,  Zoe,  and  do 
not  forsake  her,  for  she  will  stand  in  need  of  your 
care." 

"Forsake  her!"  said  the  poor  old  woman, the  tears 


116  THE    STOIC. 

falling  fast  upon  the  head  of  her  little  charge.  "For- 
sake her,  sir !  I  served  your  mother  and  loved  her, 
and  these  arms  have  nursed  and  fondled  you  when 
you  were  young  and  helpless.  They  are  old  now, 
but  they  can  si  ill  nurse  this  tender  babe,  and  my  heart 
can  still  love  your  child,  and  her  grandchild.  And 
I  will  teach  this  little  one  to  love  you  also,  and 
you  will  live  to  bless  the  day  that  made  you  a  father." 

I  own  I  had  wished  for  a  boy,  a  son  to  prolong  our 
race  as  lecturers  at  the  Stoa,  but  my  girl  was  like  my 
mother,  and  I  was  content.  Yes,  she  was  so  like  that 
lamented  parent,  I  could  not  but  love  her  with  all  the 
warmth  my  cold  philosophy  would  allow.  I,  who  to 
others  talked  of,  and  inculcated  as  a  duty  an  indiffer- 
ence to  the  softer  feelings  of  our  nature,  loved,  fondly 
loved  my  child,  and  when  alone  with  her  lavished  a 
thousand  endearments  upon  her.  My  first  kiss  had 
been  imprinted  upon  her  soft  baby  cheek  without  wit- 
nesses, and  my  caresses  were  bestowed  upon  her  in 
privacy.  She  brought  back  to  my  nature  all  the 
tenderness  I  had  felt  for  my  mother,  and  seemed  to 
link  me  more  closely  than  ever  to  her  memory. 

Zoe  was  right ;  I  did  live  to  bless  the  day  which 
made  me  a  father.  I  have  rejoiced  in  the  life  of  my 
child,  and  I  have  mourned  her  death.  And  I  have 
reason  for  much  rejoicing,  for  she  was  chosen  by  thee, 
0  God !  to  teach  me  a  belief  in  thee,  and  in  thy  works ; 
and  in  that  belief  I  found  the  best  consolation,  when 
thou  thought  fit  to  call  my  child  from  earth,  to  place 
her  among  the  angelic  spirits  of  heaven. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

YOUTH  has  been  called  the  blest  period  of  man's 
existence.  It  has  been  likened  to  every  thing  beau- 
tiful, and  every  thing  beautiful  has  been  likened  to  it. 
Then,  it  has  been  said,  are  man's  spirits  joyous,  his 
body  vigorous,  and  his  heart  light.  He  smiles  at  the 
petty  vexations  of  past  infancy,  and  the  cares  of  a  later 
age  he  laughs  into  distance.  Mirth,  with  her  sunny 
smiles,  greets  him  at  every  turn — pleasure  strews  her 
sweetest  and  fairest  flowers  in  his  path — the  colour  of 
fancy's  wings  beams  more  brightly — every  thing 
bears  the  stamp  of  truth  and  innocence — and  gentle 
hope  gilds  the  future.  Such  we  are  told  is  youth. 

But  was  my  youth  such  ?  Alas !  No.  My  spirits 
were  chilled — the  feelings  of  my  heart  were  deadened 
— vexations, joy,  and  pleasure,all  were  alike  unheeded, 
and  unfelt  Imagination  and  fancy  lent  not  their  aid 
to  lighten  the  cares  of  life.  Restless  and  unsatisfied, 
I  thought  not  of  the  past,  I  enjoyed  not  the  present 
time,  but  anxiously  looked  forward  to  the  future,  when 
a  perfect  wisdom  would  bring  me — what  ?  happiness 
— derived  from  a  subjugation  of  all  my  emotions  and 
passions.  The  attainment  of  that  point  was  the  end 
and  aim  of  my  life,  and  ruled  my  every  action  and 
every  thought ;  for  that  I  studied  unceasingly. 
L2 


118  THE    STOIC. 

My  father  was  dead,  and  I  was  left  alone,  save  the 
tender  infant  who  looked  to  me  for  support  and  pro- 
tection. There  were  times  when  melancholy  reflec- 
tions pressed  themselves  upon  my  mind  and  upon  my 
heart,  and  I  almost  envied  my  father's  fate,  and  wished 
to  be  as  he  was.  I  had  a  high  veneration  for  his 
wisdom  and  character,  and  doubted  not  that  he  was 
enjoying  the  blessings  which  our  philosophy  promised 
to  those  who  could  raise  their  souls  from  all  terrestrial 
feeling  and  connection.  Yet  when  I  looked  at  the 
little  infant  before  me,  I  felt  how  much  she  needed 
my  protection  and  guidance,  and  resolved  to  do  my 
utmost  to  guard  her  against  a  fate  similar  to  her 
mother's. 

Agathonica  I  constantly  heard  of,  and  frequently 
saw.  How  could  it  be  otherwise,  when  dwelling  in 
the  same  city  ?  I  heard  of  her  extravagant  luxury, 
for  she  had  ample  means  of  indulging  this  failing,  as 
although  our  divorce  had  not  yet  taken  place,  I  had 
returned  her  dower,  determined  that  Hermione,  who 
knew  not  that  her  mother  was  living,  should  have  no 
link  with  one  who  had  so  debased  herself. 

Whenever  I  visited  the  female  apartments,  Her- 
mione's  little  arms  were  open  to  me,  and  she  would 
cling  to  me  as  to  one  she  loved.  And  Zoe  had  taught 
her  to  love  me,  and  did  well  for  both  of  us  in  so  teach- 
ing her.  In  her  childish  games  I  often  found  a  relaxa- 
tion of  mind,  which  nothing  else  could  have  given 
me.  And  as  I  frave  watched  her  innocent  countenance, 
and  artless  gaiety  as  she  gamboled  about  me,  I  have 


THE   STOIC.  119 

not  unfrequently  called  to  iny  remembrance  my  in- 
fancy, and  almost  wished  that  I  was  again  a  child. 
Then  would  .come  a  moment  of  absorption,  as  my 
philosophy  expelled  such  thoughts,  and  my  little 
Hermione,  at  such  moments,  would  seat  herself  at  my 
feet,  and  patiently  wait  till  the  fit  was  over,  and  I 
again  could  find  inclination  to  play  and  to  laugh  with 
her.  She  very  early  seemed  to  understand  my  hu- 
mour, and  never  did  she  give  me  pain  or  uneasiness. 
Sometimes  she  would  caress  me,  when  she  perceived 
I  was  more  than  usually  rufHed  in  temper,  and  her 
little  winning  endearments  would  bring  serenity  to 
my  mind.  She  would  bring  me  the  sweetest  flower 
of  the  garden,  or  call  my  attention  to  the  song  of  her 
favourite  bird,  not  unfrequently  imitating  and  rivalling 
him  in  the  clear  tones  of  her  soft  and  flexible  voice. 
She  would  walk  with  me,  she  would  garden  with  me, 
or  she  would  sit  by  my  side  silently.  Her  temper, 
her  patience  were  never  wearied ;  her  greatest  happi- 
ness seemed  to  consist  in  being  with  me,  and  a  single 
kiss,  a  kind  word  from  me,  would  in  an  instant  bring 
a  smile  of  joy  upon  her  countenance. 

Was  it  strange,  was  it  wrong  that  I  should  feel  some 
affection  for  so  sweet  a  creature  ?  I  sometimes  thought 
it  was,  and  wrould  forbear  visiting  her.  I  know  not 
what  she  suffered  at  those  times,  but  I  seemed  to  have 
lost  something  necessary  to  my  existence.  Oh,  had  I 
then  known  true  religion,  how  much  misery  might 
we  both  have  been  spared  !  But  it  was  decreed  other- 
wise ;  and  I  lived  in  darkness,  doubt,  vexation  and 


120  THE    STOIC. 

trouble.  Tormenting  my  mind  with  speculations,  of 
which  I  knew  not  the  fallacy,  although  I  felt  they  did 
not  fully  satisfy  my  soul  ;  and  torturing  my  heart  to 
overcome  feelings  and  emotions  from  which  spring 
some  of  our  sweetest  and  dearest  enjoyments  and 
happiness. 

And  years  were  to  pass,  and  I  was  to  continue  in 
this  state ;  and  more  years  were  to  pass  before  I  could 
relinquish  the  philosophy,  which  I  had  hugged  to  my 
soul ;  a  philosophy  which  made  this  life  almost  a 
burden  to  me,  without  giving  any  decided  or  olear 
promise  of  future  bliss.  But  these  years  passed  away, 
and  I  did  relinquish  my  philosophy,  and  almost  too 
late  did  I  give  loose  to  all  the  fond  affections  of  my 
nature.  My  happiness  was  short,  but  it  was  great  ; 
and  now  that  it  is  gone,  and  that  I  am  an  old  man, 
tottering  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  I  am  content ; 
thankful  for  the  bliss  I  have  enjoyed,  resigned  to  my 
present  lonely  state,  and  looking  forward  with  cheer- 
fulness and  with  hope,  to  the  time  when  I  shall  be 
called  to  enjoy  once  more  the  society  of  my  beloved 
child,  in  those  realms  of  peace  and  happiness  which 
she  taught  me  to  believe,  are  the  dwelling-places  of 
the  good. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


AT  this  time  Christianity  was  making  great  progress, 
though  secretly  ;  for  it  was  a  crime  at  Athens  to  in- 
troduce the  worship  of  new  gods.  I  daily  exerted 
myself  in  my  conversations  with  my  friends,  and  in 
my  lectures  to  my  pupils,  to  guard  them  against  giving 
into  the  belief  of  the  Christians. 

But  while  thus  exerting  myself,  I  was  not  aware 
that  this  new  religion  had  taken  root  in  my  own 
house. 

To  Zoe  I  had  given  the  charge  of  my  child  merely 
instructing  her  in  some  branches  of  her  education  my- 
self;  and  the  education  of  an  Athenian  female  seldom 
extended  beyond  the  use  of  the  distaff,  and  general 
domestic  affairs.  I  was  satisfied  if  she  attended  to  the 
rites  of  our  religion,  seldom  explaining  the  intentions 
of  them  to  her  ;  leaving  to  a  future  time,  when  age 
should  have  matured  her  intellect,  to  teach  her  some 
of  the  tenets  of  the  Stoics.  Indeed,  she  was  little 
more  than  an  amusement  to  me  ;  seeking  her  society, 
as  I  have  before  said  I  did,  as  a  relaxation  from  the 
intense  study  which  I  still  pursued.  These  inter- 
courses endeared  us  to  each  other  ;  and  it  was  not 
till  she  had  attained  her  eighteenth  year,  that  I  was 


122  THE    STOIC. 

alarmed  as  to  her  religious  opinions.  And  when  I 
first  began  to  be  suspicious  of  her  being  a  Christian,  I 
did  not  immediately  question  her  upon  the  point, 
because',  I  not  only  thought  it  impossible  for  her  to 
differ  in  opinion  to  me,  but  I  could  not  imagine  how, 
in  the  perfectly  retired  manner  in  which  she  passed 
her  time,  she  could  even  hear  that  there  was  a  new 
religion  sprung  up,  and  much  less  who  could  teach  it 
to  her.  For  I  was  ignorant  that  Zoe,  the  friend  and 
tutoress  of  her  infant  years,  had  always  been  a  Chris- 
tian, being  a  descendant  of  the  woman  Damaris,  who 
had  been  converted  to  Christianity  by  the  preaching 
of  Paul  at  Athens. 

But  soon  was  the  truth  of  my  conjectures  to  be 
confirmed.  I  one  day  sought  Hermione  in  her  apart- 
ments ;  I  did  not  tread  unusually  light,  but  she  did 
not  hear  my  approach,  and  I  surprised  her  reading 
intently,  my  mother's  book.  I  approached,  and  as 
she  lifted  her  eyes  and  discovered  me,  a  confused 
blush  overspread  her  face  ;  she  rose  from  her  couch, 
still  holding  in  her  hand  the  book,  I  had  so  long,  so 
anxiously  wished  to  see. 

"  Hermione,"  I  exclaimed,  "  that  book.  Tell  me, 
what  is  it?  I  have  from  my  boyhood  sought  for  it  ; 
how  came  it  in  your  possession?" 

"  It  is  the  word  of  Christ,"  she  replied  calmly,  but 
in  a  subdued  tone. 

My  hand  had  been  stretched  towards  if,  but  I  im- 
mediately shrunk  from  touching  it. 


THE    STOIC.  123 

"  Tell  me,  how  came  you  by  it  ?  How  long  have 
you  had  it  ?" 

"  Zoe  gave  it  to  me  ;  and  it  was  your  mother's," 

"  And  did  my  mother,  she  whom  I  loved,  who  I 
thought  all  virtue,  all  goodness,  and  did  she  read  that 
foolish  manuscript  ?  Was  my  mother,  whom  I  loved 
so  tenderly,  and  deeply,  a  Christian  ?" 

"  Father,"  said  Hermione,  "  her  virtues  and  her 
goodness  were  derived  from  the  study  of,  and  her  be- 
lief in  the  words  of  this  precious  book.  It  was  her 
daily  companion  ;  to  read  it  was  her  first  occupation 
in  the  morning,  and  her  last  at  evening.  And,  father," 
she  continued  meekly,  but  firmly,  "/also  am  a  Chris- 
tian." 

I  did  not  raise  my  arm  to  strike  my  child,  though 
never  before  had  my  anger  been  so  aroused.  I  up- 
braided her  with  disobedience,  I  told  her  I  had  long 
entertained  suspicions  of  her  religion.  I  cursed  Zoe 
as  having  been  the  means  of  leading  her  into  such  de- 
lusions. I  scoffed  at  her  belief;  I  ridiculed  the  sect  of 
which  she  had  avowed  herself  a  member.  I  denied 
the  existence  of  the  Divine  Power,  and  of  any  Gods, 
but  those  which  my  country  owned.  In  my  agitation 
I  seized  her  arm,  "  Swear,"  I  exclaimed,  "  swear  by 
the  great  Jupiter,  by  Minerva,  the  goddess  and  pro- 
tectress of  your  country,  to  renounce  this  damnable 
belief.  Return  to  the  worship  of  your  forefathers,  or 
be  for  ever  a  stranger,  and  an  outcast  from  my  affec- 
tions, my  care,  my  house." 

"  Father,"  replied  Hermione,  boldly  and  without 


124  THE    STOIC. 

trembling,  "  you  have  taught  me  the  duties  due  from  a 
child  to  a  parent;  you  have  taught  me  to  love,  rever- 
ence, and  obey  you ;  and  still  do  I  love  you,  oh  how 
dearly  !"  and  a  tear  glistened  in  her  eye.  "I  rever- 
ence you,  and  I  will  obey  you  in  every  thing,  save  in 
renouncing  my  God.  He  also  is  my  Father,  and  to 
him  is  due  love,  honour,  reverence,  and  obedience, 
even  greater  than  is  required  of  me  towards  my  earth- 
ly parent  It  is  not  lightly  that  I  have  embraced  the 
faith  of  the  Christians.  It  is  not  from  a  single  reading 
of  this  manuscript,  that  I  firmly  believe  in  its  words 
and  promises ;  I  should  not  have  been  led  from  the 
faith  of  my  forefathers,  had  I  not  felt  convinced  it  was 
a  faith  to  be  abhorred.  I  have  thought  by  day  and  by 
night,  I  have  reasoned  constantly  ;  and  the  more  I 
have  thought,  the  more  I  have  reasoned,  so  the  more 
firmly  have  I  felt  assured  that  I  have  chosen  the  right 
path.  This  book  has  taught  me,  that  there  is  a  God 
above  all  other  Gods,  a  Ruler  of  the  universe,  the 
Creator  of  all  things.  It  has  taught  me  that  there  is  a 
Heaven  to  which  we  return  after  death,  and  are 
rewarded  or  punished  according  to  our  deserts.  It  has 
taught  me  that  He,  whom  we  call  Jesus  Christ,  was 
sent  to  teach  us  mortals  the  path  to  eternal  life.  It 
contains  his  precepts,  his  words ;  and  it  promises  hap- 
piness greater  than  we  can  conceive,  for  those  who 
obey  the  will  of  his  Father  who  sent  him.  I  say  again, 
I  have  not  embraced  this  belief  lightly  and  without 
deep  consideration ;  but  I  have  embraced  it  upon  a  firm 
conviction  of  its  truth  and  blessedness.  I  knew  that 


THE    STOIC.  125 

from  you,  I  should  meet  with  much  opposition ;  and  I 
have  already  suffered  much  in  disobeying  your  pre- 
cepts. If  you  do  indeed  cast  me  from  you,  I  will  pray 
that  your  heart  may  be  softened ;  and  as  I  have  ever 
done,  that  you  may  come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  true 
God.  A  time  will  come,  it  must  come,  when  my  be- 
lief will  be  your  belief,  and  when  we  shall  worship  the 
same  God.  But  if  till  that  time  come,  I  must  be  an 
outcast  from  my  paternal  roof,  and  if  I  must  choose 
between  my  father  and  my  God,  much  as  it  will  cost 
me  to  renounce  one  so  long  and  so  dearly  loved,  yet 
will  I  do  it,  though  my  heart  should  break  in  the  ef- 
fort." As  she  spoke  she  was  much  agitated,  her  cheek 
was  flushed,  and  my  own  proud  spirit  flashed  from  her 
dark  eye,  the  darker  and  brighter  for  the  spirit  which 
moved  her.  A  moment  over,  and  the  soft  temper  of 
my  mother  shone  upon  her  fair  brow,  as  she  mur- 
mured in  meekness,  "  Father,  forgive  me." 

I  was  angry,  bitterly  so.  Still  would  I  endeavour 
to  point  out  to  her,  what  she  must  suffer,  if  cast  off  by 
me;  nurtured  as  she  had  been  in  ease  and  affluence, 
guarded  from  every  ill  and  every  distress,  how  could 
she  endure  the  scoffs  and  taunts,  nay  perhaps  the  bodi- 
ly sufferings,  with  which  her  sect  was  visited.  She 
listened  to  me  attentively,  as  I  pictured  her  probable 
fate  ;  but  she  was  calm  and  steadfast. 

"  All  this,"  she  said,  "  I  have  thought  of,  and  all  this 
I  can  and  will  bear,  rather  than  purchase  the  ease  and 
luxuries  of  this  temporal  life,  at  the  expense  of  my  hap- 
piness hereafter.  I  am  a  female;  but  God,  who  has 

M 


126  THE    STOIC. 

willed  that  I  should  come  to  a  true  knowledge  of  him, 
if  I  hold  fast  my  faith,  will,  I  trust,  give  me  strength 
to  bear  the  torments  of  mind  and  body  which  may  await 
me.  If  you  cast  me  from  you,  into  his  hands  I  com- 
mit myself,  confidently  and  joyfully." 

My  heart  still  clung  to  her,  spite  of  my  disappoint- 
ment and  anger.  I  knew  how  strongly  the  kindest 
feelings  of  our  nature  were  implanted  in  her  heart,  and 
again  I  attempted  to  make  an  impression  upon  her,  by 
representing  the  happiness  we  had  enjoyed  together, 
and  what  I  must  suffer  in  my  declining  age,  if  I 
separated  from  her.  As  I  spoke,  the  colour  fluttered 
in  her  cheek,  her  bosom  heaved,  and  her  eyes  were  cast 
down. 

"  Father,"  she  replied, "  I  acknowledge  I  feel  all  this. 
For  past  love  and  care  I  am  grateful,  and  never  can  I 
forget  the  happiness  of  my  youth.  Oh,  if  you  could 
read  my  heart,  you  would  know  how  fondly  it  clings, 
and  ever  must  cling,  to  you,  my  only  parent.  But 
still,"  she  continued  with  firmness,  "I  cannot,  must 
not,  will  not,  renounce  my  God." 

I  took  her.hand  in  mine,  and  pressed  it;  "Once 
again,  Hermione,"  I  said,  "  I,  who  never  before  sup- 
plicated to  any  one,  will  beg  of  my  child,  beg  where  I 
might  command,  to  renounce  her  errors  and  return  to 
the  worship  of  her  country." 

"  Father,"  she  said  earnestly,  and  clasping  her  hands, 
"  dear  father,  in  mercy  do  not  tempt  me  to  lose  my 
soul,  for  the  enjoyment  of  a  little  happiness  here;  if  hap- 
py I  indeed  could  be,  while  subject  to  the  upbraidings 


THE    STOIC.  127 

of  my  own  conscience,  upon  the  holiest  and  most  im- 
portant of  subjects." 

In  wrath  I  left  her,  and  hurried  into  the  garden : 
there  for  a  time  I  suffered  the  most  poignant  grief. 
Could  I  indeed  cast  from  me  one  I  loved  so  dearly, 
who  had  been  my  pride,  my  joy,  my  solace  ?  For  a 
little  difference  in  opinion  upon  a  subject  upon  which 
many  now  differed.  Yet  was  I  not  firmly  wedded  to 
the  religion  of  my  country  ?  Had  I  not  taught  it  pub- 
licly to  thousands,  and  was  I  to  be  chafed  by  a  female? 
I,  who  had  disputed  with  the  first  philosophers  of  the 
age,  and  of  almost  every  country,  and  who  was  my- 
self the  head  of  my  sect,  was  I  to  become  the  pupil  of 
a  child,  to  be  induced  by  her  to  renounce  what  had 
been  established  for  ages,  for  the  doctrines  of  a  poor 
wandering  people,  of  whom  we  had  not  heard  till  the 
last  century  ?  No,  forbid  it  philosophy  !  forbid  it  rea- 
son ! 

Sleep  came  upon  me,  but  with  it  also  a  dream  most 
horrible. 

Methought  I  was  upon  the  point  of  plunging  a  dag- 
ger into  the  bosom  of  my  child,  as  she  stood  before  me, 
calm  and  unmoved,  seeming  to  await  the  stroke  with 
a  pitying  mournful  tenderness  of  expression  in  her 
beautiful  countenance.  Suddenly  my  head  became 
giddy,  my  sight  failed  me,  and  my  hand  sunk  power- 
less, and  the  most  horible  torments  assailed  my  quiv- 
ering flesh. 

Impenetrable  darkness  surrounded  me ;  the  air,  if  it 
were  air,  pressed  heavily  upon  me  ;  an  indescribable 


128  THE    STOIC. 

restlessness  pervaded  my  body  and  my  mind  ;  not  a 
sound  met  my  ears,  but  the  stillness  around  me  had  no 
calmness,  no  soothing  power.  Still  my  mind  retained 
its  energy,  and  my  heart  its  feelings.  Tenderness  and 
love  for  my  child  came  with  tenfold  strength,  only  to 
.  increase  my  agony.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  recurred  to 
the  past ;  happiness  sprung  from  nothing,  from  nothing 
could  I  derive  consolation  or  alleviation  of  the  racking 
torments  of  my  mind. 

Nor  were  the  pains  of  my  body  less.  It  was  not 
the  burning  of  my  limbs  before  a  raging  fire — it  was 
not  the  gnawing  of  my  entrails  by  beasts  of  the  desert 
— it  was  not  the  crushing  of  my  bones  beneath  the  wheel 
of  torture — it  was  not  the  ringing  of  the  waters  in  my 
ears  while  drowning — it  was  not  the  hot  and  parched 
suffocation  of  the  throat — it  was  not  one  of  these  pains 
separately  which  assailed  me,  it  was  the  combination 
of  them  all,  in  their  utmost  power  of  torment.  I 
would  have  destroyed  myself,  but  it  was  in  vain  that 
I  struck  myself  with  the  dagger,  it  had  not  power  to 
kill ;  and  a  vague  and  imperfect  feeling  came  across 
me,  that  I  was  never  to  die.  I  could  look  back  to  the 
beginning  of  my  life,  I  could  count  its  years  by  its 
sorrows ;  but  when  I  attempted  to  think  of  the  probable 
termination  of  my  existence,  I  could  fix  no  time  to 
end  my  anguish ;  my  life  became  one  lengthened  term 
of  misery,  lengthening  and  lengthening  as  the  wish 
to  end  it  increased;  and  again  that  horrible  feeling 
that  I  was  never  to  die,  came  across  me  stronger  than 
ever. 


THE    STOIC.  129 

A  change,  a  blessed  change  came  over  me  ;  and  again 
I  saw  my  child.  A  wide  space  was  betwixt  us,  yet 
were  her  features  distinct;  a  bright  light  seemed  to 
surround  her,  which  though  effulgent  beyond  the 
power  of  conception,  did  not  dazzle  ;  it  was  calm, 
steady,  beautiful,  and  increased  the  loveliness  of  her 
countenance.  A  smile  of  exquisite  sweetness  beamed 
.  in  her  eyes,  and  played  round  her  mouth,  as  she  held 
her  outstretched  arms  towards  me,  as  if  inviting  me  to 
cross  the  gulph  between  us,  and  join  her,  where  all 
seemed  quietness,  peacefulness,  and  bliss. 

Methought  that  the  action  of  putting  forth  my  hand 
to  catch  hers,  relieved  me  from  my  torments ;  all  pains 
left  me,  and  happiness  again  returned  to  me.  The 
start  of  joy  at  being  thus  suddenly  released,  awoke  me ; 
and  in  reality  did  I  behold  my  darling  child  smiling 
upon  me  with  the  same  sweet  smile  of  love  as  in  my 
dream ;  my  hand  also  met  hers  in  a  prolonged  grasp 
of  joy  and  tenderness. 

I  found,  that  after  a  time  becoming  alarmed  at  my 
not  returning  to  her,  she  had  sought  me  in  the  garden, 
and  finding  me  in  a  troubled  sleep,  she  seated  herself 
beside  me,  carefully  watching  every  movement  of  my 
agitated  countenance,  and  gently  wiping  away  the  big 
drops  of  perspiration  which  the  agony  of  my  dream 
had  sent  to  my  skin.  Often  as  she  heard  my  moans, 
and  saw  my  convulsive  starts,  was  she  tempted  to 
awake  me ;  but  the  recollection  of  the  anger  in  which 
I  had  parted  from  her,  and  the  fear  that  it  had  not 
subsided,  withheld  her,  and  it  was  her  intention  to 
M  2 


130  THE    STOIC. 

have  left  me  when  she  saw  I  had  become  calm ;  but 
my  awaking  suddenly  prevented  this. 

My  anger  was  gone ;  a  tear  of  tenderness  and  agita- 
tion sprung  to  my  eye  ;  she  saw  it  not,  and  it  fell  not 
upon  her  cheek,  as  her  head  rested  upon  my  bosom. 
That  had  been  its  destination,  but  my  habitual  self- 
command  and  subjugation  of  passion,  sent  it  back  again 
to  its  fountain. 

At  parting  that  evening,  Hermione  did  not,  as  had 
ever  been  her  nightly  custom,  throw  her  arms  round 
my  neck,  but  with  a  pale  and  trembling  lip,  she  said, 

"Father,  to-morrow " 

"To-morrow,"  I  replied,  without  looking  at  her, 
"to-morrow  we  meet  again,  Hermione." 

As  she  left  me,  I  heard  her  utter  fervently,  "My 
God,  I  thank  thee !" 

The  morrow  came ;  my  child  was  calm,  attentive, 
and  observant  of  her  usual  habits ;  but  her  step  was 
slower,  her  cheek  paler,  her  voice  trembled  occasion- 
ally, and  her  eyes,  instead  of  being  turned  towards  me 
in  love,  as  they  were  wont  to  be,  were  cast  down. 
How  much  I  missed  those  fond  looks,  which  ever 
greeted  me  ;  fain  would  I  have  recalled  the  sweet 
smile  which  ever  dimpled  her  cheek  when  addressing 
me,  I  asked  her  to  sing,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that 
her  voice  had  lost  somewhat  of  its  melody ;  she  an- 
swered me,  when  I  addressed  her,  softly  and  sweetly, 
but  she  now  never  started  a  subject  for  our  converse. 
I  watched  her  at  her  employments,  they  were  still  the 
same ;  but  if  she  embroidered,  methought  her  hand 


THE    STOIC.  131 

moved  less  skilfully ;  in  tending  her  birds,  I  did  not 
heftr  the  little  imitative  chirp  with  which  she  used  to 
encourage  their  warbling ;  and  even  her  flowers  seemed 
to  have  lost  somewhat  of  their  attraction  for  her.  I 
thought  her  drooping,  without  a  murmur,  without  a 
sigh.  Oh !  if  she  had  given  vent  to  reproach  and  to 
anger,  I  could  have  borne  it  better ;  but  to  see  her  so 
gentle,  so  tender,  yet  so  mournful !  I  could  not  bear  it, 
and  after  many  days  of  misery  to  us  both,  I  one 
evening  took  her  hand,  and  said, 

"Hermione,  if  blame  must  attach  to  one  of  us,  let  it 
be  to  me.  I  dare  not  think  of  what  my  duty  is,  but  I 
cannot  part  with  you.  Never  recur  to  what  has  passed 
between  us  ;  I  leave  you  free  to  act  as  your  judgment 
shall  tell  you  is  right ;  I  wish  there  had  been  no  matter 
of  difference  between  us  ;  but  we  may  still  be  happy 
together.  I  will  hold  to  the  faith  of  my  country,  but 
you  are  free  to  follow  the  worship  of  the  Christians." 
She  would  have  spoken.  "Nay,  do  not  thank  me. 
Let  it  be  a  subject  upon  which  you  never  speak  first. 
But  Hermione,  be  happy,  and  again  make  your  father 
so  also." 

She  sank  into  my  arms,  and  a  flood  of  tears  relieved 
her.  Now  again  was  she  my  lovely,  my  beautiful, 
nay  happy  child ;  though  I  could  detect  a  softened 
joy  in  her  manner,  a  sweet  pensiveness  now  marked 
her  countenance ;  and  when  I  rallied  her  upon  the 
loss  of  the  bright  smiles  I  so  much  missed,  my  heart 
smote  me  as  being  the  cause  of  their  banishment,  and 
I  felt  grateful  for  the  efforts  made  to  recall  them. 


132  THE    STOIC. 

Thus  did  I  allow  myself  to  be  conquered,  and  my 
philosophy  conquered  also,  by  my  love  for  my  child ; 
and  many  were  the  moments  in  which  I  blamed  my- 
self, nay  almost  repented  my  leniency  towards  her. 
Yet  when  in  her  society,  I  almost  felt  that  she  might 
win  me  to  anything. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

CHRISTIANITY  spread,  and  particularly  among  the 
lower  class.  I  had  hitherto  considered  the  common 
people  as  unworthy  of  instruction.  Therefore  I  now 
felt  my  pride  mortified,  and  saw  myself,  and  the  sci- 
ence to  which  I  pretended,  eclipsed  by  the  illiterate 
among  the  common  people,  whom  I  had  so  much 
despised.  In  this  state  of  mind  I  endeavoured  to 
console  myself  with  affecting  to  despise  those  who 
despised  me,  and  at  first,  without  demeaning  myself 
to  examine  the  historical  evidence  of  the  facts  on 
which  Christianity  was  founded,  I  superciliously  con- 
tented myself  with  considering  it  as  a  new  thing, 
brought  into  the  world  by  obscure  persons,  with  a 
crucified  malefactor  and  some  fishermen  at  its  head  ; 
besides,  although  there  were  some  of  our  rites  which 
I  despised,  I  conformed  to  them,  being  seriously  per- 
suaded, that  things  of  such  venerable  antiquity  were 
of  a  sacred  nature.  Still  was  my  mind  restless  and 
unsatisfied.  I  daily  heard  of  fresh  converts  to  the  new 
religion  ;  in  my  own  home  I  witnessed  the  purity  of 
a  Christian's  life,  and  I  felt  very  much  inclined  to 
examine  their  doctrines.  I  had  forbidden  Hermione 
ever  to  mention  the  subject  to  me,  but  I  was  resolved 
to  have  some  conversation  with  her  upon  it,  and  to 


134  THE    STOIC. 

discover,  if  possible,  if  it  were  indeed  a  happier  and  a 
more  reasonable  belief  than  my  own. 

"Tell  me,  Hermione,"  I  one  evening  said  to  her, 
"  when  I  blamed  you  for  renouncing  the  religion  of 
your  country,  did  you  not  in  your  heart  curse  me?" 

"Curse  you!  No,  father.  I  was  miserable  and 
unhappy,  but  I  endeavoured  to  be  resigned." 

"  Hermione,"  and  I  seized  her  arm  with  firmness, 
"  if  my  hand  were  raised  against  your  life,  would  you 
not  curse  me  then  ?" 

She  turned  pale,  and  fear- was  for  a  moment  in  her 
countenance  ;  "  No  not  even  then  would  I  curse  my 

parent,  I  would "  she  paused,  and  looked  fixedly 

in  my  face. 

"What  would  you,  Hermione?" 

Looking  upward  with  an  indescribable  sweetness, 
she  said,  "  I  would  pray  my  God  for  forgiveness  for 
you." 

Her  look,  her  manner,  so  sweet,  so  solemn,  struck 
to  my  heart,  and  loosing  my  hold  I  turned  hastily  from 
her.  She  saw  that  I  was  moved,  and  I  repented  my 
want  of  self-command,  and  my  weakness  in  allowing 
her  to  see  it.  It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  hinted 
at  her  religion,  and  months  again  passed  in  silence 
upon  the  subject. 

But  during  those  months  I  had  not  been  idle ;  I  had 
studied,  I  had  thought  of,  nay,  I  had  even  held  con- 
versations with  Christians  upon  their  belief ;  and  what 
induced  me  to  do  this  ?  My  unhappiness,  and  I  do  not 
blush  to  say,  my  love  for  my  child.  When  an  infant, 


THE    STOIC.  .  135       . 

left  as  she  was  to  my  care  in  a  peculiar  and  unfortu- 
nate manner,  I  thought  I  loved  her  for  her  helpless 
innocence,  and  for  the  resemblance  she  bore  to  my 
mother.      In  youth,  Hermione  still  grew  upon   my 
affections,  and  I  found  I  loved  her  for  herself ;  and 
sometimes  I  blushed  for  my  love,  and  sometimes  I 
cursed  my  cold  philosophy ;  still  I  could  not  but  love 
her.     Her  beauty,  her  gentleness,  her  feminine  sweet- 
ness, and  her  talents,  stole  upon  me  year  after  year, 
and  spite  of  all  my  endeavours,  I  found  she  became 
more  dear  to  me.     Her  strict  obedience  to  my  will, 
her  forbearance   when  I  had   so  strongly  tried  her 
temper,  led  me  not  only  to  admire  her,  but  to  inquire 
into  the  nature  of  that  belief,  which  enabled  her  thus 
to  overcome  her  passions,  apparently  with  so  much 
less  difficulty  than  my  Stoic  philosophy  enabled  me 
to  root  mine  from  my  breast,  nay,  and  much  more 
effectually  so  too.     Her  life  seemed  to  be  smooth  and 
unruffled,  while  I  was  continually  agitated,  with  heart 
and  mind  constantly  at  variance.      Yet  my  doubts 
and  struggles  did  not  appear  outwardly ;  then  might 
she  not  suffer  also  unseen?  No.     That  face  so  calmly 
cheerful,  could  not  belong  to  a  writhing  heart,  and  a 
troubled  mind.     Even  her  deepest  thought  seemed  to 
be  blest,  for  her  brow  was  unmarked  by  care  ;    hap- 
piness alone  seemed  to  have  made  her  pure  heart  his 
dwelling-place,  and  to  beam  in  her  youthful  counte- 
nance.     To  be  so  happy  she  must  be  virtuous,  and 
moreover  wise  ;    and  I  must  learn  such  wisdom  and 


136  THE    STOIC. 

such  happiness.     But  reason  alone  must  guide   me, 
and  I  must  not  suffer  my  affections  to  influence  me. 

Our  religious  conversations  were  now  more  fre- 
quent ;  I  asked  her  many  questions,  and  she  always 
answered  me  with  modesty,  yet  with  a  full  understand- 
ing of  the  subject.  One  evening,  while  sitting  under 
my  mother's  myrtle  tree,  the  following  conversation 
took  place  between  us. 

"  And  you  think,"  I  said,  "  that  we  may  indulge 
the  affections  of  our  nature  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  do.  1  think  that  all  our  passions  and 
all  our  feelings  were  given  to  us  for  a  wise  purpose  by 
our  Creator ;  the  good  ones  to  be  encouraged  to  his 
glory,  and  the  evil  ones  to  try  the  strength  of  our 
virtue,  and  to  insure  our  future  reward  and  happiness 
by  being  overcome.  I  wish,"  she  continued,  throwing 
one  arm  round  my  neck,  and  looking  sweetly  in  my 
face,  "I  wish,  my  dear  father,  I  could  persuade  you  to 
forget  your  philosophy,  and  to  let  your  heart  love  me, 
as  well  as  it  wishes  to  do.  Nay,  do  not  shake  your 
head." 

"  My  heart  will  love  you  in  defiance  of  my  reason, 
my  girl,  and  though  my  philosophy  forbids  it.  It  is  a 
very  foolish  heart,  Hermione." 

"  Oh  !  no,  no,  not  foolish,  my  dear  father  ;  consider 
we  are  alone  in  the  world  together,  not  a  single  relation 
beside  myself  have  you  ;  and  who  have  I  so  dear  to 
me  as  my  father  ?  Why  then  should  we  not  love  each 
other  very  dearly  ?" 

"  My  philosophy  teaches  me  not  to  love  or  hate 


THE    STOIC.  137 

anything  ;  and  in  truth  I  have  found  but  little  in  the 
world  to  wish  to  love." 

"  I  on  the  contrary/'  said  my  smiling  child,  "  love 
every  thing.  This  beautiful  flower/'  plucking  a 
pomegranate  bud,  "  I  not  only  admire  for  its  beautiful 
colour,  but  I  love  it  because  it  forms  a  part  of  the  cre- 
ation. I  love  the  birds  that  sing  around  us,  and  that 
clear  and  rippling  river  ;  nay,  I  love  the  very  earth 
on  which  we  tread.  And  if  I  can  so  love  inanimate 
things,  you  may  judge  how  dearly  I  love  you,  my 
father." 

"  You  say  you  love  every  thing,  yet  every  thing 
will  perish,  Hermione ;  and  to  lose  what  we  love  must 
cause  pain,  then  surely  it  is  far  better  to  live  in  indif- 
ference. The  birds  will  cease  their  songs,  and  become 
a  mass  of  corruption  and  putridity ;  that  flower  will 
fade,  and  its  brilliant  colour  will  change  to  one  un- 
seemly to  your  eye." 

"True,  father.  But  other  birds  will  be  in  life  and 
sing  as  sweetly  ;  and  other  blossoms  will  show  them- 
selves as  beautiful,  and  console  me  for  the  loss  of  those 
that  have  died  and  faded." 

"  And  /,  Hermione,  must  also  pass  away  and  become 
a  mass  of  corruption ;  will  then  another  father  be  given 
you?" 

"You  will  indeed  be  taken  from  me;"  she  said 
seriously;  "but  even  then  Ivshallnot  be  without 
consolation.  Our  separation  will  be  but  for  a  time, 
and  though  it  will  be  grievous  to  me  for'a  time,  how- 


38  fHE    STOIC. 

ever  short,  yet  I  have  the  conviction  that  we  shall 
meet  again  in  Heaven,  never  more  to  part" 

"And  your  flowers,  and  all  that  you  love,  will  they 
also  be  given  to  you  in  your  Heaven?" 

"  I  know  not,  nor  can  I  exactly  understand  of  what 
my  happiness  hereafter  will  consist.  But  I  am  willing 
to  think  that  you,  who  have  been  the  cause  of  my 
greatest  happiness  here  below,  will  also  contribute  to 
the  greater,  purer,  and  more  blessed  happiness  which 
is  promised  to  me  hereafter,  if  I  so  conduct  myself  as 
to  obtain  eternal  life.  But  call  it  not  my  Heaven  only, 
father,  it  is  the  Heaven  for  you,  and  for  all ;  it  is  the 
everlasting  home  .to  which  we  shall  all  return." 

I  asked  the  grounds  of  her  belief  in  a  future  life. 

"  I  am  promised  it  by  Jesus  Christ,  and  believing 
most  firmly  as  I  do  in  Him,  I  believe  in  his  promises 
also.  I  am  but  a  poor  ignorant  girl,  and  cannot  argue 
with  you  ;  what  I  tell  you  of  my  belief,  I  understand, 
and  I  feel  it  to  be  right ;  but  there  are  many  points, 
which  being  less  essential  to  guide  my  conduct,  I  do 
not  attempt  to  study  or  to  think  of ;  and  for  an  expla- 
nation of  those  points,  I  refer  you  to  our  good  Bishop 
Quadratus.  But  I  can  reason  a  little  with  you,"  she 
continued,  smiling,  "  in  the  way  of  your  own  dear 
philosophy.  Is  not  happiness  the  end  and  aim  of 
your  studies,  and  your  life?" 

"  Most  assuredly  it  is." 

"Well,  it  makes  me  happy  to  encourage  my  belief 
in  a  Supreme  Creator,  and  in  a  Heaven  ;  therefore  it 
would  be  folly  in  me  not  to  believe.  If  it  be  a  wrong 


THE    STOIC.  '139 

belief,  and  I  should  sink  into  the  grave,  and  rot  into 
nothing,  body  and  soul  together  ;  still  I  shall  have 
been  happy,  and  therefore,  according  to  your  philoso- 
phy, I  shall  have  been  right  But  if  I  am  to  die,  only 
to  live  again  in  another  world,  if  this  body  is  to  decay, 
but  my  soul  to  rise  again,  will  it  not  add  to  my  bliss  to 
know  that  I  have  not  wilfully  disbelieved  and  denied 
what  my  Creator  has  so-  mercifully  taught  us  by  his 
Son  and  our  Saviour?  OhJ  how  sincerely,  how  fer- 
vently do  I  wish  that  you  would  think  as.  I  do  ?" 

"  That,  Hermione,  may  never  be." 

I  said  it  might  not  be  ;  but  from  conversations  such 
as  these,  I  did  not  rise  without  reflection,  and  my 
philosophy  was  shaken.  I  became  a  less  frequent 
attendant  at  the  Poecile  Portico,  and  I  began  to  shun 
the  society  of  my  former  friends.  To  doubt  the  truth 
of  the  philosophy  in  which  I  had  been  educated,  was 
the  first  step  towards  renouncing  it.  Still  I  was  re- 
solved not  to  do  so  lightly,  and  without  a  strict  ex- 
amination of  the  reasons  for  Christianity. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


I  WAS  in  a  state  of  uncertainty  and  doubt ;  a  state 
which  cannot  last  long ;  it  is  unquiet  and  painful. 
Although  many  and  great  misfortunes  have  fallen 
upon  me,  my  life  has  never  been  so  constantly  disa- 
greeable to  me  as  in  this  time  of  trouble  and  anxiety  ; 
when  wandering  from  doubt  to  doubt,  I  gained  little 
from  my  long  and  frequent  meditations  than  uncertainty 
as  to  the  cause  of  my  existence. 

To  doubt  of  things  which  it  is  important  for  us  to 
know,  is  too  violent  a  state  for  the  human  mind,  it  will 
not  remain  in  it  long  ;  it  will  decide  in  one  way  or 
another,  and  loves  better  to  deceive  itself,  than  to  be- 
lieve nothing. 

What  increased  my  embarrassment  was,  that  having 
been  brought  up  in  opinions  (for  I  cannot  now  call  it 
a  religion)  which  did  not  admit  of  a  doubt,  one  single 
point  rejected,  made  me  reject  many  others. 

I  again  perused  the  writings  of  the  different  philoso- 
phers, who  had  dictated  to  mankind  ;  I  examined  their 
several  opinions,  and  sometimes  thought  them  positive 
and  dogmatical,  and  proving  nothing.  I  thought  of 
the  melancholy  fate  of  mortals,  floating  on  the  sea  of 
human  opinions,  without  rudder  or  compass,  and 
abandoned  to  their  violent  passions,  without  any 


THE    STOIC.  141 

other  guide  than  an  inexperienced  pilot,  who  knows 
not  his  route,  whence  he  came  or  whither  he  goes.  I 
felt  that  to  know  the  truth  was  essential  to  my  hap- 
piness ;  I  sought  it,  but  I  could  not  find  it. 

What  made  the  foundation  of  my  Stoic  philosophy 
better  than  those  of  Epicurus  or  Plato  ?  Then  why, 
again,  were  the  Christian  opinions  concerning  the  form- 
ation of  the  universe  more  rational,  and  nearer  the  truth, 
than  those  of  Zeno  ? 

I  had  been  taught  that  this  universe  was  a  sentient 
and  animated  being ;  and  my  doubts  led  me  to  examine 
more  carefully  than  I  had  yet  done  the  nature  of  mat- 
ter and  its  properties ;  and  after  this  examination,  I  felt 
so  persuaded  that  the  natural  state  of  matter  is  rest, 
and  that  it  has  not  in  itself  the  power  of  motion ;  that 
when  seeing  a  body  moved,  I  judged  it  either  to  be  an 
animated  body,  or  that  motion  had  been  communicated 
to  it 

Yet  this  universe  is  visibly  matter,  and  matter  in 
motion  too ;  how  then  could  I  prove  that  it  is  not  ani- 
mated and  sentient?  I  must  judge  of  it  by  analogy,  I 
must  compare  it  with  something,  and  nothing  so  readily 
presented  itself  as  fit  for  my  purpose  as  myself;  and 
this  comparison  induced  me  to  think  that  this  world  is 
not  a  great  animal  which  moves  of  itself,  for  I  could 
not  discover  that  it  has  anything  of  the  union,  organi- 
zation, or  feeling,  common  to  the  parts  of  an  animated 
body.  It  is  in  motion,  but  in  its  regular  and  uniform 
motion  there  is  nothing  of  that  liberty  which  appears 
in  the  spontaneous  movements  of  man. 
w  2 


142  THE    STOIC. 

Thus  was  one  point  in  the  doctrines  of  my  philoso- 
phy rejected ;  I  will  not  say  that  I  readily  rejected  it  j 
for  who  can,  without  some  feeling  of  reluctance,  allow 
the  fallacy  of  an  opinion  which  he  had  entertained  al- 
most from  his  birth  ?  But  I  did  renounce  my  former 
belief  as  to  this  univei'se  being  animated  ;  and  if  inani- 
mate, it  could  not  be  sentient.  And  I  believed  that 
there  was  a  something,  a  cause,  a  will,  which  moves 
the  universe  and  animates  nature. 

And  if  the  motion  of  matter  proved  to  me  a  will, 
the  perfect  order •,  and  harmony  of  the  different  parts 
of  the  universe,  gave  me  the  idea  of  an  intelligence 
to  direct  that  will. 

This  intelligent  principle,  this  Being  who  wills  and 
is  able  to  perform  every  thing,  the  Christians  called 
God  ;  and  in  acknowledging  the  power,  the  existence 
of  this  first  and  intelligent  cause,  /  also  acknowledged 
a  God, 

What  now  became  of  the  doctrine  of  chances  and 
combinations  ?  Of  fate  and  necessity  ?  I  could  ^no 
longer  believe  that  matter  passive  and  without  life,  had 
been  able  to  produce  living  and  feeling  beings ;  or  that 
a  blind  fatality  had  been  able  to  form  intelligent  crea- 
tures ;  or  that  things  which  have  no  power  of  thinking 
could  produce  beings  who  have. 

I  acknowledge  a  God,  and  to  this  name  I  joined 
ideas  of  intelligence,  power,  and  will ;  and  goodness 
which  is  the  necessary  result  of  these.  I  knew  that  he 
existed,  and  that  he  existed  of  himself ;  and  that  my 


THE    STOIC.  143 

existence,  and  that  of  all  other  things  was  subservient 
to  his. 

I  perceived  God  in  all  his  works  ;  in  the  heavens 
which  encompass  the  earth  ;  in  the  stars  which  shine 
upon  us  ;  in  the  bird  which  flies  ;  in  the  stone  which 
rolls  on  the  ground;  and  in  the  leaf  which  is  shaken 
by  the  wind. 

After  having  discovered  those  attributes  of  God,  by 
which  I  came  to  a  knowledge  of  his  existence,  I  re- 
turned to  the  study  of  myself;  and  sought  to  know 
what  rank  I  occupy  in  the  order  of  the  things  he 
governs. 

I  find  myself  incontestably  in  the  first;  for  by  my 
will,  and  the  instruments  which  are  in  my  power  to 
execute  it,  I  am  more  able  to  act  on  all  the  bodies 
which  surround  me,  and  to  make  them  subservient  to 
my  wishes,  than  they  are  to  make  me  obey  them ;  and 
by  my  intellect,  I  am  the  only  one  who  can  survey  the 
whole.  What  being  on  this  earth  besides  man,  can 
observe  the  other  beings,  foresee  their  movements,  and 
the  effects  of  them,  and  join,  as  I  may  say,  the  feeling 
of  a  common  existence  with  that  of  his  individual  ex- 
istence ?  It  is  true  therefore,  that  man  is  the  king  of 
the  earth  he  inhabits,  and  I  am  proudly  content  with 
the  situation  in  which  I  am  placed.  But  this  place  was 
not  my  choice,  and  was  not  given  me  as  a  reward. 
How  then  can  I  feel  myself  thus  distinguished  from 
the  other  creatures  of  the  earth,  without  congratulating 
myself  upon  filling  a  situation  so  honourable,  with- 
out blessing  the  hand  which  placed  me  in  it. 


144  THE    STOIC. 

t 

I  came  to  the  conclusion,  that  man  is  free  in  his 
actions,  and  being  so,  is  animated  with  an  imma- 
terial substance,  which  makes  him  accountable  to 
God  for  his  actions.  Jindthat  Providence,  has  made, 
man  free,  that  he  may  do  good,  and  not  evil,  by 
choice. 

Thus  came  I  to  a  belief  in  God,  in  a  world  to  come, 
in  a  day  of  judgment,  and  in  future  rewards  and  pun- 
ishments. I  became  a  Christian. 

Oh  !  what  an  immense,  what  a  wonderful  alteration 
did  this  belief  work  upon  my  feelings  !  My  misfor- 
tunes, my  unhappiness,  have  been  great ;  but  patiently 
will  I  await  the  time,  when,  freed  from  my  mortality, 
all  trouble  shall  cease,  all  pain  vanish  away,  and  in  the 
presence  of  my  God  I  shall  sing  glory  and  praise  to 
the  Everlasting !  and  enjoy  the  contemplation  of  his 
infinite  goodness,  in  the  company  of  just  men  made 
perfect,  and  of  my  darling  child,  who  first  taught  me 
that  this  life  is  but  a  pilgrimage,  and  who  first  led  me 
to  a  belief  of  a  God,  and  of  a  Heaven.  Bless  thee, 
bless  thee,  Hermione !  Thou  wert  my  joy  on  earth, 
and  thou  savedst  my  soul  from  perdition. 

Thus  have  I  endeavoured  to  give,  as  briefly  as  pos- 
sible, the  reasons  which  actuated  me  in  changing  my 
religious  belief;  and  of  embracing  those  opinions,  for 
the  holding  of  which  I  had  almost  sent  my  only  child 
a  solitary  outcast  upon  the  wide  world.  Oh !  how 
did  my  heart  now  repent  of  what  I  that  day  said  to 
her,  and  how  sincerely  did  it  now  seek  to  repair  those 
harsh  words,  by  the  increased  tenderness  with  which 


THE    STOIC.  145 

it  now  beat  for  her.  Increased,  because  I  felt  I  might 
indulge  it  without  danger  to  my  eternal  welfare,  and 
because  it  had  something  of  gratitude  mixed  with  it, 
as  I  looked  upon  her  as  having  been  the  cause  of  the 
important  changes  in  my  opinions  and  feelings. 

Might  I  indeed  cherish  love  for  my  child  and  for 
my  mother,  without  blushing  at  my  weakness  ?  How 
shall  I  describe  my  feelings  at  that  moment,  when  I 
suffered  the  tender  emotions  of  my  nature  to  fill  my 
heart,  without  a  wish  or  an  endeavour  to  overcome  or 
to  curb  them.  I  cannot  describe  the  impetuosity  of 
my  feelings,  my  yearnings  to  embrace  my  beloved 
Hermione,  and  to  tell  her  that  the  time  she  once  so 
confidently  spoke  of  was  arrived,  when  her  God  was 
become  my  God,  her  belief  my  belief,  and  that  we 
cherished  the  same  hopes  of  a  life  to  come  and  eternal. 
I  felt  no  humility  in  owning  to  my  child  the  change 
in  my  opinions. 

But  although  the  relation  of  my  conversion  has 
been  brief,  my  conversion  itself  did  not  take  place  in 
a  few  days  or  weeks.  I  had  many  early  and  strongly 
imbibed  prejudices  to  overcome,  and  it  was  many 
months  before  a  perfect  change  was  completed.  Du- 
ring that  time  I  did  not  mention  the  subject  to  Her- 
mione, resolved  not  to  do  so  while  there  remained 
the  smallest  doubt  in  my  mind  upon  any  point.  But 
now  that  all  doubts  were  cleared  away,  all  prejudice 
conquered,  and  that  I  had  learnt  to  know  the  true 
cause  and  end  of  my  existence,  I  was  anxious  to  make 
her  acquainted  with  a  circumstance  which  I  felt  would 


146    .  THE    STOIC. 

so  very  much  increase  her  happiness;  and  I  longed  to 
humble  myself  in  prayer  to  my  Creator,  in  company 
with  my  darling  child. 

"  Hermione/'  said  I  to  her  one  day,  "  you  will  be 
prepared  to  welcome  to  our  repast  to-day  one  of  my 
most  valued  friends." 

I  forebore  to  tell  her  my  intention,  and  never  shall 
I  forget  the  expression  of  her  countenance  when  I 
entered  our  hall,  with  Quadratus,  the  Christian  Bishop 
of  Athens.  Astonishment,  doubt,  and  joy,  alternately 
depicted  themselves  in  that  dear  face.  I  opened  my 
arms,  and  she  threw  herself  upon  my  bosom,  and  a 
few  tears  of  gladness  chased  each  other  down  her 
cheeks. 

"  I  am  now  a  Christian,  Hermione,"  I  said. 

"  You,  my  dear  child,  have  been  the  chosen  instru- 
ment to  work  out  my  conversion.  I  little  thought, 
when  you  were  put  into  my  arms  a  helpless  infant, 
that  you  were  to  win  me  from  the  idolatrous  worship 
of  my  forefathers,  and  to  lead  me  to  the  study  of  my- 
self, of  the  universe,  and  thereby  to  a  knowledge  of 
God.  Heaven  bless  thee,  my  child  !  and  may  I  ever 
be  grateful  for  the  precious  gift  bestowed  upon  me  in 
you." 

My  child's  heart  was  too  full  of  joyful  feelings  to 
allow  of  her  speaking;  but  she  took  my  hand  and  one 
of  Quadratus's,  and  pressing  them  together,  she  im- 
printed a  kiss  upon  each. 

I  that  evening  tasted  greater  and  purer  happiness 
than  I  ever  before  had  known  ;  seated  under  my 


THE    STOIC.  147 

> 

mother's  myrtle  tree,  we  passed  it  in  conversation, 
and  in  reading  that  book,  which  was  now  become  as 
dear  to  me  as  to  Hermione,  and  from  which  my  touch 
did  not  now  recoil. 

The  majesty  of  the  Holy  Writings  astonished  me, 
the  sanctity  of  the  Evangelists  touched  my  heart.  I 
owned  that  the  books  of  the  philosophers;  with  all 
their  pomp  of  learning,  were  nothing  compared  to  that ; 
and  I  there  now  sought  for  the  rules  and  precepts* for 
my  conduct ;  which,  but  a  few  months  before,  I  thought 
were  contained  in  the  writings  of  Zeno  and  his  foHow- 
ers  only. 

Nor  was  I  content  in  professing  the  change  in  my 
opinions  to  my  particular  friends  only,  but  I  resolved  to 
become,  by  baptism,  a  follower  of  Christ  Hermione, 
who  in  deference  to  my  paternal  authority  had  not 
yet  gone  through  the  ceremony,  expressed  a  wish,  to 
be  baptised  at  the  same  time. 

We  therefore  presented  ourselves  together  at  the 
font,  and  Quadratus  blessed  both  father  and  child. 


CHAPTER  X. 

OUR  happiness  was  of  short  duration  ;  but  a  few 
years  elapsed  between  my  conversion  and  my  perse- 
cution for  the  belief  which  I  had  embraced. 

Christianity  had  spread  widely,  but  every  where 
we  heard  of  the  rigours  with  which  the  Roman  go- 
vernment visited  its  professors.  Imprisonment,  banish- 
ment, torture,  nay  death,  were  dealt  out  to  our  brethren 
with  an  unsparing  hand.  Edict  upon  edict  closely 
followed  each  other ;  neither  age  nor  sex  were  allowed 
as  an  extenuation  of  the  punishment  doomed  to  the 
followers  of  Christ.  Grey-headed  men  were  con- 
demned to  die  a  lingering  and  excruciating  death,  and 
the  agonies  of  mothers  with  infants  at  their  bosoms 
were  not  less. 

At  Athens,  we  however,  as  yet,  remained  untrou- 
bled ;  although,  while  pitying  our  friends  in  distress, 
we  thought  of  what  probably  awaited  ourselves.  And 
while  I  gazed  on  my  beloved  and  beautiful  child,  I 
shuddered  ;  how  could  that  delicate,  alas !  at  this  time 
too  delicate,  frame,  bear  immurement  in  a  prison? 
Those  youthful  limbs  might  be  tortured  and  wounded. 
I  thought  of  this,  and  the  tears  rolled  down  my  cheeks. 
I  fervently  asked  the  Almighty  that  all  suffering  might 
fall  on  me  alone. 


THE    STOIC.  149 

By  prayer  to  heaven,  by  reading,  and  by  exhorta- 
tion, we  endeavoured  to  encourage  in  each  other  a  firm 
reliance  upon  the  Divine  will. 

The  blow  came ;  I  cannot  describe  the  agony  of  that 
hour.  I  scarcely  know  what  took  place  generally ;  I 
was  stunned,  my  mind,  my  observation,  were  un- 
hinged and  put  to  flight  by  the  intensity  of  my  an- 
guish. I  only  saw  my  beloved  Hermione  torn  from 
me,  and  knew  not  whither  she  was  carried  ;  without 
one  parting  embrace  was  she  taken  from  me ;  the  rude 
hands  of  the  soldiers  held  her  back  ;  it  was  in  vain  that 
she  implored  for  one  kiss,  one  blessing  ;  they  would 
have  intercepted  our  looks  had  it  been  in  their  power, 
but  it  was  not ;  and  after  a  deep  glance  of  agony  we 
were  separated,  leaving  to  either  but  little  hope  of 
meeting  again,  save  in  that  heaven  to  which  we  prayed 
for  fortitude  and  patience. 


In  my  prison,  deprived  of  every  comfort,  and  almost 
necessaries,  the  agonies  of  my  mind  where  tenfold 
more  than  those  of  my  body.  My  child,  my  child, 
where  was  she  ?  I  thought  of  her  loveliness,  of  >her 
goodness,  and  my  heart  yearned  to  her  with  greater 
love  than  it  ever  had  done  before.  Were  my  trials 
never  to  cease  ?  was  I  doomed  always  to  be  miserable. 
Oh  God  forgive  me,  that  in  my  hours  of  agony,  almost 
of  distraction,  I  dared  to  murmur  against  thy  decrees. 

o 


150  THE    STOIC. 

I  had  but  lately  rejoiced  in  the  soft  affections  of  huma- 
nity, and  now  they  served  to  increase  my  sufferings. 
I  could  not  now  recall  my  Stoical  apathy  ;  my  feelings 
had  lately  had  full  exercise,  and  I  cduld  not  now  bid 
them  leave  my  breast  I  wept,  I  mourned,  and  in 
prayer  only  could  I  find  an  alleviation  of  my  misery. 

Weeks  thus  passed,  and  with  joy  I  hailed  the  sum- 
mons to  appear  before  the  governor  of  Athens.  That 
governor  was  Maximinian,  and  I  knew  not  whether 
to  expect  mercy,  or  increased  severity  from  him,  on 
account  of  the  connexion  between  us.  I  cared  but 
little  for  myself,  but  I  hoped,  though  not  confidently, 
that  Agathonica's  heart  would  soften  in  behalf  of  her 
child,  and  that  she  possessed  sufficient  influence  with 
her  paramour  to  obtain  a  pardon  for  Hermione. 

I  had  been  in  the  hall  of  justice  some  moments  with 
my  fellow-sufferers,  before  the  females,  who  were  also 
to  be  tried  that  day,  appeared,  and  was  still  uncertain 
as  to  the  fate  of  my  child  ;  so  far  uncertain  at  least, 
that  although  I  knew  that  upon  her  separation  from 
me,  she  also  had  been  conveyed  to  prison,  I  was  igno- 
rant whether  she  was  to  undergo  her  examination  that 
day  or  not. 

At  length  the  females  entered,  and  my  impatient 
eyes  soon  discovered  my  darling  Hermione  among 
them  ;  she  walked  slowly,  with  her  eyes  bent  on  the 
ground,  and  it  was  some  time  before  she  lifted  them  to 
survey  those  around  her  ;  but  in  that  hasty  glance  she 
quickly  recognised  me,  and  with  outstretched  arms, 
she  uttered  a  piercing  shriek  which  sounded  through 


THE    STOIC.  151 

the  hall  and  drew  all  attention  to  her  ;  then  lifting  her 
eyes  to  heaven,  she  seemed  to  utter  a  prayer,  and  again 
her  head  dropt,  and  with  her  arms  crossed  on  her  bo- 
som, she  stood  perfectly  still  and  motionless.  The 
colour  which  had  for  an  instant  rushed  to  her  cheek, 
had  fled,  and  left  her  pale  and  colourless  as  the  purest 
marble  ;  but  for  the  gentle  heaving  of  her  bosom,  the 
beholder  might  have  imagined  her  a  statue,  she  was  so 
pale,  so  still.  The  rigours  of  confinement  had  taken 
somewhat  from  the  roundness  of  her  figure,  but  she  still 
looked  lovely  ;  and  while  the  praises  of  her  beauty 
were  murmured  through  the  assembly,  even  in  that 
hour  of  trial  and  of  sorrow,  my  heart  was  proud  and 
joyful,  as  I  claimed  that  young  creature  as  my  daugh- 
ter. I  watched  the  countenance  of  Maximinian,  and 
thought  that  it  relaxed  in  its  sternness  as  he  gazed 
upon  her  ;  even  the  lowest  of  his  attendants  seemed 
to  regard  her  with  admiration  and  pity ;  and  so  strongly 
did  I  feel  that  to  be  the  moment  to  sue  for  mercy  and 
pardon  for  her,  that  I  should  have  fallen  upon  my 
knees  before  the  governor,  had  he  not  that  instant 
called  forward  some  of  my  companions  for  their  exa- 
mination. 

Seldom  were  my  eyes  removed  from  that  one  dear 
being;  I  endeavoured  to  watch  the  changes  of  her 
countenance  as  the  trials  proceeded  ;  she  still  remained 
in  the  position  which  she  had  taken  upon  her  entrance; 
and  except  that  an  occasional  shudder  passed  moment- 
arily over  her  frame,  as  the  blows  inflicted  upon  the 


152  THE    STOIC. 

'•,'•"  •'•'   •  '     .    .' tf>-    "  ""'. "      '       • 

interrogated   were   distinctly  heard,   I  Should    have 
thought  her  unconscious  of  what  was  passing. 

My  turn  arrived.  I  looked  calmly  in  the  face  of 
Maximinian,  but  he  shrunk  not ;  I  was  almost  tempted 
to  upbraid  him  with  the  injury  he  had  done  me  in  early 
life,  but  my  spirit  was  too  proud  to  make  that  a  plea 
for  generous  treatment  at  that  time. 

Now  did  Hermione  show  symptoms  of  animation. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  with  intense  earnestness  upon  me; 
the  colour  fluttered  in  her  cheek,  her  hands  were 
clasped,  and  with  head  slightly  bent  forward,  and 
parted  lips,  she  eagerly  awaited  my  answers.  Once 
the  attendant's  rod  was  held  over  me,  and  my  child 
saw  it  about  to  descend. 

"Mercy !"  she  cried  in  agony,  her  clasped  hands 
stretched  towards  Maximinian,  "Mercy,  for  my 
father !" 

A  smile  of  haughty  derision  curled  the  lip  of  the 
governor,  as  he  said,  "  Do  you  ask  mercy  from  me  ? 
I  had  been  told  that  the  Christians  felt  not  the  pains 
of  the  body,  when  bearing  them  for  their  religion's 
sake ;  or  if  they  did  feel  them,  that  to  one  source  only 
did  they  look  for  mercy,  and  that  they  scorned  the 
power  I  hold." 

"Yes,"  replied  my  child  with  bold  firmness,  and 
standing  proudly  erect,  "  We  Christians  do  scorn  the 
power  you  arrogate  to  yourself  in  the  affairs  of  our 
religion.  But  you  have  done  well  to  recall  my 
thoughts  to  where  indeed  we  can  alone  look  for  mercy 
and  compassion,  and  I  thank  you  that  you  have  done 


THE    STOIC.  153 

so."  Then  sinking  on  one  knee,  the  expression  of 
her  uplifted  countenance  being  now  only  that  of  hum- 
ble piety,  she  said,  "  Father  in  heaven,  forgive  me, 
that  my  earthly  passions  and  anxieties  made  .me  for 
one  instant  forget  that  from  thee  alone  can  we  hope  to 
receive  justice  and  mercy.  Thy  will  be  done,  and 
oh  !  grant  us  strength  to  bear  without  a  murmur, 
whatever  thou  in  thy  wisdom  and  goodness  seest  fit 
to  afflict  us  with."  Then  again  turning  proudly  to 
Maximinian,  as  she  rose,  she  said,  "Now  do  your 
worst.  Our  hope  is  in  heaven.  Father,  let  us  bear 
our  misfortunes  as  though  we  felt  them  not,  and  if 
they  reach  even  to  death,  let  us  yield  our  lives  in 
firm  faith  of  Him  who  died  for  us,  and  in  a  full  and 
perfect  assurance  of  a  happy  life  in  a  world  to  come." 

"You  speak  nobly,  fair  maiden,"  said  Maximinian, 
"and  show  that  you  inherit  the  pride  of  your  family. 
I  will  question  you  as  to  your  belief;  methinks  you 
will  give  me  judicious  answers,  nay,  perhaps  you  will 
convert  me." 

"Would  that  I  could  convert  you,  and  make  you  a 
follower  of  that  religion  and  faith,  which  even  in  this 
hour  of  sorrow,  speaks  comfort  and  consolation  to  its 
believers." 

He  then  proceeded  to  question  her  as  to  the  faith  of 
the  Christians ;  my  child  answered  him  firmly,  with- 
out fear,  yet  still  retaining  the  modesty  of  her  sex. 
She  said  the  kingdom  of  Christ  was  an  angelic,  not  an 
earthly  one,  and  would  commence  at  the  end  of  time, 
when  he  would  come  in  glory  to  judge  the  living  and 
o2 


154  THE    STOIC. 

the  dead,  and  to  give  to  every  one  according  to  his 
works.  That  according  to  the  principles  of  Christi- 
anity, all  mankind,  without  any  distinction  of  high  or 
•  low,  rich  or  poor,  are  equally  candidates  for  a  happy 
immortality. 

A  slight  colour  tinged  her  cheek  as  she  spoke,  and 
often  the  fervour  of  her  piety  made  her  manner  not 
merely  earnest,  but  energetic ;  but  when  she  had  fin- 
ished, her  head  again  sunk  upon  her  bosom,  and  she 
appeared  meekly  and  patiently  to  await  her  sentence. 

There  was  a  perfect  silence  for  some  time  in  the 
hall,  and  Maximinian  seemed  to  be  ruminating  upon 
the  punishment  he  was  to  award  to  the  young  creature 
before  him.  He  more  than  once  looked  towards  her, 
and  then  at  me;  at  length  he  said,  "Have  you  no  fa- 
vour to  ask  of  me,  young  maiden?" 

"I  fear  you  will  scarcely  grant  any  request  from 
me,  a  poor,  persecuted  Christian,"  replied  Hermione, 
in  a  tone  and  manner  which  implied  that  she  was  not 
anxious  to  be  obliged  to  him  for  the  grant  of  a  favour. 

"Nay,  judge  not  so  harshly  of  me,"  said  Maximi- 
nian, almost  conciliatingly,  "Your  youth  pleads  some- 
what in  your  behalf;  and  I  feel  inclined  to  be  lenient 
towards  you." 

"Then,"  replied  Hermione,  "I  will  make  one  re- 
quest. Do  not  separate  me  from  my  father.  What- 
ever punishment  awaits  him,  grant  that  I  may  share 
it." 

"You  have  unfortunately  made  a  request  which 
does  not  agree  with  my  half-formed  intention  of  taking 


THE    STOIC.  155 

you  inio  the  household  of  my  wife,  to  be  her  constant 
attendant." 

I  could  not  refrain  from  showing  my  surprise  and 
indignation  at  such  a  proposal,  and  I  sternly  said,  "Maxi- 
minian,  you  know  me.  I  do  not  now  speak  to  you  as  a 
persecuted  Christian  and  a  stranger,  but  as  an  injnred 
husband  and  loving  father.  I  am  astonished  at  the 
proposal  you  have  made,  that  Hennione,  my  virtuous 
and  innocent  child,  should  live  under  the  same  roof 
with  Agathonica.  If  you  meant  to  insult  me,  know, 
proud  man^  that  although  unfortunate,  I  have  a  spirit 
which  will  not  tamely  brook  unmerited  insult;  and, 
in  my  present  situation,  it  is  mean  to  add  insult  to 
your  tyranny.  I  know  that  I  am  in  your  power,  and 
that  if  you  please  you  can  at  this  moment  take  my 
life.  But  I  do  not  fear  you.  I  have  been  silent  many 
years ;  I  have  never  upbraided  you ;  but  attempt  to 
bring  my  child  in  contact  with  her  miserable  mother^ 
and  though  immured  in  a  dungeon,  I  will  find  some 
means  to  free  her,  and  to  avenge  myself  for  all  my 
injuries.  Nay,  Hermione,"  I  said,  observing  her 
surprise  at  my  words,  and  taking  hold  of  her  with  one 
hand,  while  with  the  other  I  pointed  to  Maximinian 
— "Hermione,  do  not  be  alarmed  at  my  earnestness. 
I  have  hitherto  carefully  concealed  from  you  the  un- 
happiness  that  man  brought  upon  me,  the  injury  he  has 
done  us  both.  A  governor  of  others  ought,  methinks, 
to  be  possessed  of  a  heart  firm  in  good  principles,  and 
a  character  to  which  not  the  slightest  taint  can  attach. 
He  is  appointed,  or  takes  upon  himself,  to  deal  justice 


lOb  THE    STOIC. 

to  every  one,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest  of  those 
over  whom  he  rules;  he  is  to  administer  the  laws 
with  fidelity  and  truth,  to  rich  and  poor,  to  wise  and 
simple ;  he  holds  his  power  in  trust,  and  is  accountable 
for  its  right  application  to  the  people,  to  his  king,  and 
to  his  God.  Maximinian  is  a  governor;  and  has  he, 
does  he  act  thus  ?  Let  his  conscience  answer  what 
laws  he  has  transgressed,  what  rights  he  has  invaded, 
what  injuries  he  has  committed.  Look  at  him,  Her- 
mione,  and  in  him  behold  the  seducer,  who,  I  know 
not  by  what  blandishments,  tempted  your  mother  to 
leave  her  home,  her  husband,  and  her  child,  her  young 
and  helpless  child ;  and  he  has  now  the  baseness  to 
offer  to  that  child  a  home  in  his  own  house,  that  she 
may  be  a  daily  witness  of  her  mother's  ignominy. 
Shame,  shame,  Maximinian !" 

My  wrath  was  roused,  yet  I  spoke  not  passionately  ; 
but  he  quailed  before  me.  A  murmur,  low  but  general, 
rose  from  the  assembly,  and  the  anger  of  Maximinian 
was  manifest  in  his  agitated  countenance.  He  muttered 
something  of  death.  « 

"  I  care  not,"  I  said,  "  take  my  life,  and  my  last 
breath  shall  pronounce  your  infamy." 

"Death  were  too  speedy  an  end  to  your  sufferings," 
he  replied ;  "  no,  Eurysthenes,  I  condemn  you  and 
your  proud  child  to  perpetual  banishment  in  the  Island 
ofCEanthe." 

Hermione  clung  to  me,  partly  in  terror,  and  partly 
in  love  ;  I  strongly  pressed  her  to  my  bosom,  and 
throwing  my  arm  around  her,  seemed  by  my  strong 


THE    STOIC.  157 

grasp  to  be  fearful  that  she  might  yet  be  taken  from 
me. 

There  are  some  islands  on  the  coast  of  Ithaca, 
which  are  scarce  better  than  barren  rocks ;  no  trees 
grow  on  them,  a  few  weeds  only  give  signs  of  vege- 
tation ;  no  animals  inhabit  them,  and  even  the  birds  of 
the  air  forsake  them. 

Such  an  one  was  CEanthe ;  but  dreary  as  the  pros- 
pect of  living  there  would  have  seemed  to  others,  I 
dreaded  it  not,  while  the  treasure  most  prized  was 
left  me.  For  myself  I  cared  not;  I  could  endure 
any  privations,  but  I  trembled  for  my  child.  I  was 
fully  convinced  that  the  strength  of  her  religious 
principles  would  enable  her  to  endure  every  hardship 
without  a  murmur,  that  her  mind  would  not  fail  her 
under  any  trial,  but  I  feared  her  bodily  strength.  The 
few  weeks  that  she  had  heen  condemned  to  inhabit 
a  prison  had  made  a  visible  alteration  in  her  appear- 
ance, in  which  there  was  a  delicacy  which  strongly 
reminded  me  of  my  dear  mother  ;  and  I  shuddered 
as  the  idea  of  her  sinking  prematurely  crossed  me. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

I  WILL  not  attempt  to  describe  our  feelings  upon 
leaving  our  beloved  Athens ;  beloved,  because  it  had 
been  the  birth-place  of  us  both;  our  happy  home. 
We  did  not  give  utterance  to  our  thoughts  or  griefs, 
but  with  hands  clasped  in  each  other,  we  stood  upon 
deck,  watching  the  coast  which  receded  from  our 
sight  much  too  quickly.  In  silence  we  lost  sight  of 
it ;  and  in  silence  we  landed  upon  our  new  and  dreary 
land. 

I  had  not  formed  a  wrong  idea  of  my  child's 
strength  of  mind,  and  fortitude  in  adversity.  Many 
were  exiled  with  us,  but  Hermione  was  active  among 
them,  speaking  consolation  to  the  aged,  and  stimulating 
the  younger  by  her  words  and  example  to  activity  and 
resignation.  The  comfort  of  each  individual  seemed 
to  be  the  object  of  her  care,  and  as  far  as  lay  in  her 
power  she  contributed  to  it  All  blessed  her,  and  all 
followed  her  advice  and  example ;  and  in  a  short  time 
our  little  colony  was  settled,  if  not  happily,  content- 
edly ;  and  we  were  brethren  in  love  as  well  as  in  ad- 
versity. We  set  apart  a  small  building  as  a  chapel, 
and  I  was  chosen  as  the  pastor  of  our  little  commu- 
nity. My  child  had  managed  to  secrete  my  mother's 
Bible,  now  the  only  one  within  our  reach,  and  it  be- 


THE    STOIC.  159 

came  a  carefully  guarded  treasure,  the  common  pro- 
perty of  all. 

But  notwithstanding  the  activity  of  Hermione,  I 
could  detect  a  latent  melancholy  preying  upon  her  con- 
stitution. Often  would  she  sit  silently  and  pensively; 
her  voice  was  now  never  raised  except  in  hymns  to 
her  Creator ;  and  I  found  that  that  part  of  the  shore 
which  lay  opposite  to  Ithaca  was  her  most  favourite 
walk,  and  never  would  she  go  elsewhere,  when  I  left 
her  to  guide  the  way  for  our  evening  ramble. 

Still  she  expressed  no  regret,  no  sign  ever  escaped 
her  till  within  a  short  time  of  her  death ;  when  I  not 
unfrequently  observed  her  eyes  fixed  upon  me,  and 
suffused  with  tears,  which  she  would  quickly  repress 
when  she  discovered  I  noticed  her.  I  daily  saw  her 
declining,  I  saw  her  form  wasting,  and  her  strength 
failing.  Others  saw  it  too,  and  in  their  kindness  offered 
me  condolence  and  consolation.  Alas !  from  them  I 
could  not  derive  lasting  comfort  I  saw  my  only 
earthly  treasure  gliding  from  my  possession,  yet  I 
wept  not  I  could  not  weep,  my  grief  was  too  deep 
for  tears.  She  was  the  only  tie  which  bound  me  to 
life,  and  made  that  life  endurable  ;  and  that  tie  was  to 
be  loosened.  From  my  birth,  it  appeared  that  I  had 
been  doomed  to  unhappiness;  that  amidst  every  appa- 
rent blessing,  misfortune  secretly  haunted  me.  I  had 
lost  family  and  fortune,  and  now  was  to  lose  the  only 
being  who  loved  me,  or  whom  I  loved  ;  that  dear 
child,  who  from  her  infancy  I  had  doated  upon,  even 
in  contradiction  to  my  principles  ;  and  now,  when  re- 


160  THE    STOIC. 

ligion  hallowed  and  blessed  my  affection,  now  when  I 
felt  that  in  loving  her,  I  was  fulfilling  a  law  of  nature 
and  of  God ;  she  was  to  be  taken  from  me.  I  wept 
not,  nor  did  I  murmur.  I  did  not  pray  for  the  life  of 
my  child,  for  I  knew  that  the  Almighty,  who  had  a 
knowledge  of  all  my  thoughts  and  wishes,  would,  if 
he  saw  good,  grant  them  without  my  asking ;  he  willed 
that  she  should  be  taken  from  me,  and  I  submitted ; 
but  my  almost  hourly  prayer  was  for  her  an  easy  death 
free  from  suffering,  and  for  myself  fortitude  to  bear 
the  separation  as  becomes  a  Christian. 

My  sweet  child  was  but  a  short  time  confined  to 
her  room.  I  daily  read  to  her,  and  she  constantly 
exhorted  me  to  be  resigned.  She  spoke  of  her  near 
dissolution  without  fear  or  trembling ;  she  said  our 
separation  would  be  for  a  little  time  merely,  and  she 
was  abundantly  thankful  that  she  had  been  the  means 
of  leading  me  to  the  same  faith  and  religion  which  she 
had  believed  in. 

She  sunk.  Hers  was  the  first  grave  dug  in  the  little 
spot  of  ground  which  we  had  marked  out  for  the  burial 
place  of  the  persecuted,  and  she  was  followed  to  that 
grave  by  the  sighs  and  tears  of  those  among  whom  she 
had  been  as  an  angel  sent  for  awhile  to  suffering  mor- 
tals, to  show  to  them  the  inhabitants  of  the  realms 
above. 

What  pleasure  of  life  is  unmixed  with  sorrow  ? 
What  glory  upon  earth  is  of  long  continuance  ?  All 
are  more  fleeting  than  a  shadow,  all  are  more  deceitful 
than  a  dream  !  In  one  moment  death  endeth  all.  I 


THE    STOIC.  161 

thought  of  the  shortness  of  life ; — all  human  things  are 
vain,  which  cannot  survive  the  grave.  Will  riches 
survive  ?  or  will  glory  attend  beyond  the  tomb  ? 
Where  are  the  affections  of  the  world  ?  Where  the 
vain  dream  of  temporary  delights  ?  All,  all  passeth 
away  like  a  shadow. 

My  child  was  taken  from  me,  and  now  were  we 
separated  :  Alas !  what  a  separation  for  me  to  bear 
with.  She  was  delivered  up  to  the  grave,  she  was 
covered  with  the  earth  ;  every  sinful  connection  with 
life  and  vanity  was  now  dissolved  ; — the  spirit  had 
forsaken  its  mansion — the  clay  was  disfigured — the 
vessel  broken — a  speechles,  motionless,  senseless  body 
was  lowered  into  the  grave.  Where  now  was  the  grace- 
ful form  ?  Where  was  youth  ?  Where  the  brightness 
of  the  eye  ?  The  beauty  of  the  countenance  ?  All 
are  withered  like  grass.  What  is  our  life  ?  A  flower, 
a  vapour,  the  early  dew  of  the  summer  morning  ! 

In  the  contemplation  of  her  virtues,  while  I  mourned 
her  loss,  I  found  strong  motives  for  consolation,  for 
through  them  I  had  hope  of  her  eternal  felicity.  Hu- 
manity permits  me  to  be  afflicted  that  she  was  taken 
from  me,  but  the  sanctity  of  her  life  consoled  me  for 
her  loss  ;  for  she  is  at  rest  The  Christian  religion, 
and  faith,  which  is  as  nothing  without  works,  sprung 
up  in  her  heart  from  her  earliest  years,  and  like  the 
grain  of  seed  in  the  Evangelist,  it  there  became  a  great 
tree.  She  was  humble,  piously  and  discreetly  so  ; 
modest  in  her  demeanour,  kind,  attentive,  and  careful 
of  others.  But  why  enter  into  these  details  ?  She 
p 


162  THE    STOIC. 

was  beloved  by  all  who  knew  her,  and  by  me  how 
fondly  doated  on  !  Death  tore  this  pure  and  beloved 
child  from  me  in  the  flower  of  her  age,  and  my  grief 
bore  testimony  how  much  I  had  loved  her.  For  I  did 
not  attempt  to  stifle  my  anguish.  God  wills  that  we 
should  be  firm  from  religion  only,  not  from  insensi- 
bility. The  greatness  of  my  loss  justified  my  weeping, 
but  I  wept  with  moderation  ;  I  mourned,  but  I 
mourned  not  without  hope  ;  not  forgetting  the  inesti- 
mable benefit  which  my  bereavement  had  gained  for 
Hermione.  •;""£** 

Hermione  !  how  mournfully,  yet  how  fondly  does 
my  heart  trace  that  beloved  name  !  Twice  loved,  in 
my  mother,  and  in  my  child. 

I  linger  on  the  beach  where  we  so  often  have 
watched  together  the  setting  sun  and  admired  the 
golden  and  glorious  light  with  which  his  sinking  beams 
have  tinged  the  ocean.  I  look  at  that  ocean,  and  at 
the  yellow  sands  faintly  showing  themselves  through 
its  thin  waves  ;  but  where  is  she  who  used  to  watch 
with  me  its  ebb  and  its  flow,  its  gentle  ripple,  and  its 
turbulent  raging?  I  sit  in  her  chamber,  and  muse  upon 
her  loveliness  and  goodness — my  waking  thoughts 
dwell  upon  her,  and  my  dreams  bring  her  back  to  me 
in  all  her  infantine  and  later  beauty — my  friends  come 
around  me,  and  weep  for  her — they  tell  me  of  her 
virtues — and  I  bless  God  for  having  made  me  father 
to  such  a  being ! 


THE    STOIC.  163 

Thus  then  I  am  alone.  I  have  no  longer  in  this 
world  child  or  kindred.  I  am  on  this  earth,  as  in  a 
planet  where  I  had  accidentally  fallen  from  the  one  I 
inhabited.  My  heart  is  purified  by  adversity-^-I  am 
humble — years  have  passed  over  me,  and  age  has 
stamped  his  mark  on  me.  I  think  of  the  years  of  my 
childhood;  they  were  innocent ;  and  oh  !  if  my  youth 
was  not  without  blemish,  may  the  faith  of  my  later 
years  have  atoned  for  my  errors  ! 

My  love  for  my  lost  Hermione  now  partakes  of  a 
heavenly  nature,  it  has  become  a  semblance  of  that  -I 
bear  to  my  Creator.  Is  this  wrong  ?  surely  it  cannot 
be.  All  earthly  feelings  for  her  have  passed  away 
from  my  heart.  When  I  think  of  my  God,  I  think  of 
her  ;  Him  I  reverence — her  I  love — and  there  is  a 
holiness  in  my  feelings. 

My  earthly  love  therefore,  is  without  an  object  to 
rest  upon  ;  it  had  been  centered  in  hers  ;  hers  had 
been  all  its  devotedness,  all  its  tenderness,  all  its  depth. 
Now  it  must  either  become  a  load  upon  my  heart, 
useless,  and  without  joy,  or  it  must  be  spread  and 
shared  among  my  friends.  Friends  !  what  friends 
have  I,  a  poor  outcast  from  society,  a  miserable  exile 
upon  a  bleak  rock  !  Friends  !  I  have  none  but  thee, 
oh  God  !  To  thee  is  devoted  every  thought,  and  in  the 
contemplation  of  thy  goodness,  and  in  thy  worship  do 
I  now  derive  all  my  consolation,  all  my  happiness. 

Holy  religion  !  sure  and  ever  ready  refuge  for  the 
afflicted,  let  thy  divine  truths  penetrate  my  heart  ; 
make  me  feel  the  nothingness  of  human  things  ;  inspire 


164  THE    STOIC. 

me  with  a  just  disdain  lor  this  valley  of  tears  and  la- 
mentation ;  for  this  short  life  which  is  only  as  a  path 
to  arrive  at  that  which  has  no  end  ;  and  fill  my  heart 
with  this  sweet  hope,  that  the  servant  of  God,  who  has 
been  taken  from  me,  enjoys  in  peace  the  reward  of 
her  virtues  in  the  dwelling-place  of  the  blessed  ;  and 
may  I  shortly  join  her  there,  and  with  her  sing  Hal- 
lelujahs to  the  Highest ! 


LIST  OF  WORKS  CONSULTED. 


Cicero's  Nature  of  the  Gods. 
Pausanias'  Description  of  Greece. 
Herodotus. 

Mitford's  History  of  Greece. 
Gillies'  History  of  Greece. 
Potter's  Archaeologia  Graeca. 
Attic  Nights  of  Aulus  Gellius. 
Taylor's  Dissertation  on  the  Eleusinian  and  Bacchic 
Mysteries. 


THE  LANSBYS 


LANSBY      HALL. 


CHAPTER  I. 


A  BLEAK  January  day  had  settled  down  into  a 
night  of  continued  snow.  Every  now  and  then  a 
wilder  gust  of  wind  made  the  windows  of  the  old 
manor-house  rattle,  and  the  party  assembled  in  the 
dining-room  draw  closer  to  the  fire.  This  consisted 
only  of  Mr.  Merton,  the  proprietor  of  Merton  Manor 
— a  quiet  sedate  looking  gentleman  of  about  fifty  years 
of  age — his  wife  and  daughter.  The  weather  seemed 
to  forbid  the  slightest  chance  of  a  visitor,  and  after  a 
silent  and  somewhat  hurried  dinner,  the  squire  drew 
a  little  round  table  to  the  side  of  the  chimney,  and 
sipt  his  wine,  with  his  eyes  intently  fixed  upon  the 
burning  masses  of  wood  with  which  the  fire-place  was 
filled.  After  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  discover  a 
body  to  a  splendid  Turk,  whose  head  he  saw  frowning 
majestically  from  a  fragment  of  a  pine  log,  he  turned 
about  i.n  despair  to  his  wife,  and  said,  "  I  really  wish, 
my  dear,  my  lather  had  taught  me  something  or  other 
to  do  in  a  snowy  winter  night  Drinking  by  one's 
self  is  so  desperately  dull." 

" Can't  you  take  a  book,  Mr.  Merton?"  replied  the 
lady  ;  "  here  is  a  most  beautiful  story, '  The  Woes  of 
Clementina ;'  it  will  make  you  delightfully  melancholy 
for  a  whole  night" 


168  THE    LANSBYS    OF 

"  No  great  miracle  if  it  does,  especially  in  such  a 
dismal  night  as  this.  I  haven't  seen  a  soul  for  three 
days,  and  if  this  snow  continues  for  twelve  hours,  we 
shall  all  be  buried  alive.  What  would  I  give  now  for 
some  fellow  to  drop  in  !  But  who  the  deuce  would 
move  out  in  a  storm  like  this  that  could  possibly  stay 
at  home?" 

Mr.  Merton  sighed  as  he  concluded,  and  made  a 
second  attempt  to  discover  the  body  of  the  Turk.  But 
he  was  suddenly  startled  from  this  occupation  by  a 
noise  outside  the  window. 

"  Wheels,  by  all  that's  happy  !"  he  exclaimed.  "I 
hear  them  coming  down  the  avenue.  There — they're 
come  past  the  bridge — now  they're  at  the  garden 
corner — they're  stopt — they're  at  the  gate.  Who  cau 
it  be?" 

"  I  told  the  butcher,  as  he  returned  from  the  market, 
to  bring  me  the  third  volume  of  The  Orphan's  Tears 
from  the  circulating  library.  I  hope  he  has  brought  it 
in  his  gig." 

I  hope  no  such  thing.  I  wish  the  scoundrel  may 
drive  into  the  moat  if  he  has  raised  all  my  hopes  for 
nothing  ;  but  no — it  was  a  four-wheel'd  carriage. 
Why  don't  some  of  them  go  to  the  door  ?" 

A  bustle  was-  now  heard  in  the  hall — somebody 
certainly  came  in — the  words  great-coat,  portmanteau, 
bed-room,  were  heard  in  the  dining-room — the  door 
was  thrown  open,  and  in  walked  Mr.  Nathaniel 
Clack,  the  very  oldest  friend  Mr.  Merton  had  in  th« 
world. 


LANSBY    HALL.  169 

"  Merton  !  my  boy,"  exclaimed  the  visitor,  as  he 
shook  hands  with  the  whole  party,  "  how  goes  it,  eh  ? 
Capital  night  this  for  a  visit — bad  weather  always 
makes  a  fellow  so  welcome." 

"  It  doesn't  need  bad  weather,  Nat,  to  make  you 
welcome  here." 

"Or  any  where  else  faith,  if  the  truth  must  be  spoken. 
No,  no — hop  here — chirp  a  little — skip  there — gossip 
a  little — never  stay  long  in  the  same  place — talk,  dance, 
laugh — anything  by  way  of  a  lark — then  off  like  a  shot 
the  first  glimpse  I  catch  of  the  dismals." 

"Ah,  that's  the  way  to  enjoy  life  !  You  bachelors 
can  fly  about  just  as  it  pleases  you.  Where  do  you 
come  from  last?" 

"  From  Harry  Grumps's.  You  can't  think  what  a 
queer  old  fellow  he's  grown.  No  more  racket,  no 
more  whim — dull  as  a  Dutchman — and  yet  can't  help 
punning  even  in  his  bluest  fits,  and  with  such  a  mise- 
rable long  face,  that  you  are  satisfied,  if  punning  is  a 
crime,  he  is  doing  penance  for  it  in  the  moment  of 
commission.  We  had  capital  fun  for  two  days." 

"  What !  even  though  Mr.  Grumps  was  so  melan- 
choly ?"  said  Mrs.  Merton. 

"  To  be  sure — the  very  thing  that  kept  us  happy. 
There  is  nothing  half  so  amusing  as  a  fellow  continu- 
ally croaking — wishing  the  weather  would  clear  up — 
that  somebody  would  come  in — that  he  had  a  liking 
for  books — in  short,  regularly  nonplussed  for  want  of 
something  to  do.  I  always  make  a  point  of  ridiculing 
such  absurd  hypochondriacs." 


170  THE    LANSBYS    OP 

"Do  you  ?"  said  Mr.  Merton,  poking  off  the  Turk's 
head  ;  "  but  you  tired  of  it  at  last?" 

"  Why,  yes,  two  days  are  quite  enough  ;  so,  as  it 
was  a  miserably  bleak,  raw,  and  gusty  morning,  I 
ordered  my  phaeton,  and  drove  across  the  six-and-thirty 
miles,  to  bestow  a  little  of  my  tediousness  on  you. 
Have  you  any  news  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  any  thing  has  happened  since  I 
saw  you  last.  I  think  I  told  you  I  changed  my  grey 
horse  for  a  black  one." 

"Yes,  so  have  I  my  wig — don't  you  see  what  a 
magnificent  Brutus  I  am — in  fact,  grey  hair  is  very 
unbecoming,  and  is  only  fit,  as  the  Psalmist  says,  to  go 
down  with  sorrow  to  the  grave." 

"Well,  really,  if  you  hadn't  told  us  it  was  a 
wig" 

"  My  dear  madam,  don't  go  on.  Do  give  us  some- 
thing original.  I've  heard  that  a  dozen  times,  and 
never,  believed  it  a  bit  the  more.  What  would  be  the 
use  of  wearing  a  wig  if  nobody  knetv  it  to  be  one  ? 
No,  no — this  is  a  coat,  that  is  a  boot,  and  this  is  a 
wig." 

"  Well,  Nat,  I'm  happy  to  see  you,  wig  or  no  wig, 
and  here's  your  health." 

"That's  not  original — do  let  us  hear  something  new. 
I  would  travel  from  Dan  to  Beersheba  to  hear  some- 
thing out  of  the  common  way  ;  but  all  mankind  seem 
set  on  the  same  key.  Touch  any  note  of  the  instru- 
ment, it  gives  out  exactly  the  same  tone." 


LANSBT    HALL.  171 

"  By  the  by,  Nat,  do  you  know  that  Lansby  Hall 
has  at  last  got  a  purchaser  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  do— every  body  knows  it- — eighty 
thousand  down,  and  forty  more  in  three  months." 

"Who  is  it?"  interrupted  Mrs.  Merton — "we  don't 
even  know  his  name." 

"Oho — don't  you? — why,  'tis  a  man  of  the  name 
of  Merivale.  No  one  can  tell  where  he  comes  from — 
immensely  rich — nobody  can  imagine  how  he  got  his 
money.  In  short,  he's  quite  a  mystery." 

"Is  he  old  or  young  ?"  continued  the  lady. 

"Young!  oh  quite  a  young  fellow — my  own  age — 
fifty  or  so." 

"Tall  or  short?" 

"Oh,  he's  not  a  long  overgrown  monster  of  six  feet, 
I  can  assure  you.  I  heard,  indeed,  he  was  a  very 
handsome,  dignified-looking  individual — grave,  strik- 
ing, distinguished.  I  should  take  him  to  be  somewhere 
about  my  own  height." 

The  lady  smiled.     "  Have  you  seen  him  ?"  she  said. 

"  No,  not  I  ;  but  we  were  all  talking  about  him  so 
much  at  Grumps's  that  I  should  be  Sure  to  know  him 
if  we  met  on  Mount  Caucasus." 

"And  his  manege?  his  establishment?" 

"  Grand  !  magnificent !  carriages  without  number, 
horses  enough  for  a  battalion  of  the  guards.  When 
shall  we  go  over  and  call  on  him  ?" 

"Is  he  arrived  already?  It  isn't  above  a  fortnight 
since  he  bought  the  estate." 

"  Fortnight !  pooh,  man,  what  are  you  thinking  of? 


172  THE    LANSBYS    OF 

Don't  you  know  that  he  carries  the  lamp  of  Aladdin 
in  his  pocket,  and  can  fit  up  a  palace  in  a  twinkling? 
Half  the  upholsterers,  painters,  paperers,  architects, 
carpenters,  and  masons  in  London  were  down  for  a 
week,  and  for  the  last  five  days  the  proprietor  has  been 
living  in  a  fairy  palace  a  hundred  times  richer  and 
more  gorgeous  than  the  pavilion  of  an  Eastern  king." 

"  The  devil  he  has,  and  I  all  the  time  cooped  up  by 
the  snow  !  I'll  go  over  to-morrow  and  ask  him  to  din- 
ner next  week." 

"  But  his  wife,  Mr.  Clack,  has  he  a  wife  or  chil- 
dren?" 

"  Faith,  ma'am,  I  don't  know  ;  if  he  has  any  thing 
of  the  sort  he  keeps  it  very  close.  I  rather  think 
he's  a  bachelor — the  roc's  egg  is  still  wanting." 

"  My  dear  Nat,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "  we  are  very 
plain  people  ;  what  in  the  world  would  Mr.  Merivale 
do  with  a  roc's  egg,  if  he  had  it." 

"  Metaphorical — I  was  only  metaphorical.  You 
recollect,  after  the  fairies  had  filled  Aladdin's  palace 
with  every  luxury  he  could  possibly  desire,  his  enemy 
the  conjuror  got  him  persuaded  to  ask  for  a  roc's  egg, 
which  would  have  turned  every  thing  topsy  turvy, 
and  led  him  the  life  of  a  dog  ;  the  roc's  egg  is  only  an 
allegory,  and  means — a  wife." 

"And  old  Lansby,  old  Sir  Walter,  what  has  become 
of  him?" 

"  Ah,  there,  I  think  he's  very  foolish  ;  he  has  re- 
moved to  the  Sprrngfield  farm,  the  only  spot  of  ground 


HALL.r    'i  173 

left  him,  and  I  believe  he  continues  to  be  as  stiff,  and 
vain,  and  heartless  as  ever." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "  I  like  him  the  better 
for  it  It  shows  there  is  some  good  stuff  in  him  to 
keep  up  his  pride  in  the  fall  of  his  fortunes.  I  never 
liked  him  as  long  as  he  was  at  the  hall  ;  I  think  I'll 
go  and  call  on  him  now  he's  at  the  farm." 

"  I  like  that ;  something  original  there.  I'll  go 
with  you.  I  should  like  to  see  Marius  moralizing  in 
a  stack-yard,  but  I  think  'twould  have  been  wiser  to 
have  placed  his  Carthage  a  little  farther  off." 

"  Some  more  of  your  metaphors,  Nat  Now,  I 
think  he  shows  his  wisdom  in  fixing  his  quarters  under 
the  very  nose  of  his  successor.  All  men  hate  their 
successors." 

"And  you  may  depend  upon  it,  Sir  Walter  will  not 
be  deficient  in  hating" 

"  Surely,  surely  he  won't  hate  Frank  Merivale," 
said  Miss  Mary  Merton,  who  had  been  silently  list- 
ening to  the  conversation. 

"And  why  not,  my  little  sweetheart?  and  how  do 
you  know  any  thing  of  Mr.  Merivale  ?  and  how  do 
you  know  that  his  name  is  Frank?  Ha  !  there's  some 
mystery  here." 

Mr.  Nathaniel,  as  he  asked  these  questions,  fixed 
his  looks  upon  the  young  lady  with  the  most  penetra- 
ting expression  he  could  muster,  for  it  was  one  of  hia 
weaknesses,  like  Dr.  Parr,  to  think  that  he  had  a  won- 
derful power  of  eye  ;  though,  like  the  ocular  organs 
of  that  vast  pedagogue,  the  glances  of  the  ungenerous 

Q 


174  THE    LANSBYS    OF 

Nat  were  at  all  times   rather   ludicrous   than    com- 
manding. 

"Oh  !  I  merely  thought — that  is — I  think — his  name 
— didn't  you  tell  us  his  name  yourself,  Mr.  Clack?" 
replied  Miss  Mary,  stammering  and  blushing. 

"His  name,  yes  I  certainly  told  you  his  name  ;  but 
not,  that  I  recollect  of,  his  Christian  appellation — but 
Frank  is  a  very  good  name  ;  so,  as  I  was  saying,  de- 
pend upon  it  old  Sir  Walter  will  hate  him  with  most 
praiseworthy  bitterness,  whatever  be  the  name  he 
rejoices  in.  He  certainly  is  the  most  revolting  old 
vinegar-faced  rascal  I  ever  met.  I  can't  bring  myself 
to  utter  a  syllable  beyond  the  commonplaces  of  society 
in  presence  of  such  a  starched,  stiff,  rump'd,  cold,  au- 
thoritative dictator." 

"  Well,  that's  very  odd,  for  I  always  thought  you 
remarkably  agreeable  when  Sir  Walter  dined  with 
us,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  utterly  unconscious  of  the  seve- 
rity of  his  speech. 

"  Sir  Walter  was  certainly  very  stiff  and  formal," 
continued  his  lady,  equally  unobservant  of  Mr.  Natha- 
niel's chagrin  ;  "  but  I  have  always  heard  he  was  a 
very  respectable  man." 

"  Exactly.  Whenever  you  hear  of  a  respectable 
man,  write  him  down  an  individual  to  be  studiously 
avoided.  Sir  Walter  is  the  very  perfection  of  a  re- 
spectable man,  spotless  character,  regular  conduct, 
church  twice  every  Sunday.  People,  after  all,  are 
very  good-natured,  and  give  a  man  credit  for  being 
virtuous,  merely  because  he  has  never  been  convicted 


LANSBY    HALL.  175 

of  a  crime.     Now,  if  a  wild  young  fellow  like  me,  for 
instance" 

"  Yes,  Nat,  the  world  is  very  censorious  sometimes. 
You  recollect  what  a  noise  there  was  when  you  broke 
off  with  the  Lancashire  heiress?" 

"Recollect  it?  to  be  sure  I  do.  They  said  I  was  wild, 
cruel,  fickle,  vain  ;  'pon  my  honour  I  was  nothing 
of  the  kind.  I  certainly  paid  the  girl  a  great  deal  of 
attention,  and  we  certainly  appeared  to  be  mutually 
attached  ;  but  you  know,  my  dear  madam" 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Merton,  "  I  know  all  about 
it.  She  was  engaged  all  the  time  to  her  handsome 
cousin,  and  tried  to  hide  it  by  flirting  with  you.  I 
think  it  was  very  improper  behaviour,  and  that  you 
were  greatly  to  be  pitied,  for  I  remember  ill-natured 
people  laughed  at  you  very  much." 

The  little  man  looked  very  much  disconcerted  by 
this  uncomplimentary  version  of  the  anecdote,  which 
nevertheless  was  the  true  one,  and  took  no  notice  of 
the  lady's  observation.  "And  who  lives  with  old 
Lansby  ?"  he  went  on,  turning  to  Mr.  Merton. 

"Only  his  daughter,  Miss  Julia." 

"  Tall  and  straight  as  a  poplar  tree,"  replied  Mr. 
Nat — "the  father  in  petticoats,  with  the  same  cold- 
ness, stiffness,  pride ;  they  must  be  quite  happy  in  each 
other's  society." 

"They  are!"  exclaimed  Miss  Mary,  whose  fair 
brow  had  for  some  time  been  gathering  with  a  frown 
— "It  can  only  be  the  weak  and  the  frivolous  who  can 
accuse  Julia  Lansby  of  coldness  or  pride.  There 
never  was  a  nobler  girl  in  the  world ;  so  meek,  so  hum- 


176  THE    LANSBTS    OF 

ble,  so  self-denying,  and  at  the  same  time  so  beautiful. 
Every  new  misfortune  that  befals  the  family  seems  only 
to  call  forth  new  powers  to  enable  her  to  support  it" 

"Hem,"  replied  Mr.  Nathaniel,  "we've  got  into 
dangerous  ground  here.  I  assure  you,  my  dear  Miss 
Mary,  I  meant  no  disrespect  to  your  excellent  and 
amiable  friend.  She  may  be  all  you  say,  and  a  thou- 
sand things  more,  only  don't  you  allow  yourself  that 
in  general  society  she  is  a  little  stately  or  so ;  a  little 
haughty  as  it  were — and  imperial  ?  For  my  own 
part,  I  prefer  livelier  sorts  of  beauties — people  who 
are  ready  to  laugh,  and  occasionally  descend  from  their 
stilts — Miss  Lansby's  smile" 

"Is  beautiful,"  interrupted  Miss  Mary. 

"  May  be  so — but  'pon  honour,  when  she  smiles  in 
answer  to  any  observation  I  make  to  her,  I  can't  help 
thinking  that  there's  a  kind  of  a— sort  of  a — don't  you 
remark  ? — a  kind  of  pity  as  it  were,  or  almost — as  I 
may  say — contempt" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Mrs.  Merton;  "*I  dare  say  a  great 
many  young  ladies  do  that  when  you  speak  to  them, 
but  I  am  sure  Miss  Lansby  is  too  amiable  to  despise 
any  thing,  or,  at  all  events,  too  well  bred  to  show  it." 

"  Well,  thank  God  !  here  comes  my  mutton  chop," 
exclaimed  Mr.  Nathaniel,  quite  discomfited  by  the 
unintentional  hits  he  received  from  the  one-idea'd 
Mrs.  Merton  ;  "and  after  I  have  finished  it,  I  will  join 
you,  my  old  fellow,  in  a  single  pint  of  claret." 

"We  shall  be  happy  to  see  you  in  the  drawing- 
room,"  replied  the  lady,  and  followed  by  her  daughter, 
she  left  the  gentlemen  to  themselves. 


LANSBY    HALL.  177 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  old  man  was  sitting  in  a  high  backed  oaken 
chair,  his  hands  folded  before  him,  and  his  eyelids 
closely  pressed  together,  but  evidently  not  in  sleep — - 
the  motions  of  his  lips  and  the  fitful  contraction  of  his 
brow,  showed  that  the  spirit  was  busy  within.  At  a 
table  beside  him  sat  a  young  lady,  with  a  shade  of 
settled  melancholy  visible  on  her  subdued  yet  noble 
features.  She  turned  her  eyes  every  now  and  then 
from  the  paper  on  which  she  appeared  to  be  sketching, 
with  an  expression  of  anxious  affection,  to  the  troubled 
countenance  of  her  companion.  The  room  they  sat  in 
was  small,  and  very  plainly  furnished — the  sky  was 
fierce  and  stormy,  and  occasionally  the  old  casements 
rattled  loudly  when  a  wilder  burst  of  wind  than  usual 
sent  a  dash  of  sleet  and  hail  against  the  window  pane. 
The  old  man  started  from  his  recumbent  position  and 
sat  upright,  with  his  eye  fixed  keenly  and  harshly  on 
the  pale,  placid  face  of  his  daughter.  "  Julia  Lansby," 
he  said,  "act  the  hypocrite  no  more — speak  to  me  no 
more  in  such  soothing  and  gentle  tones,  but  tell  me  at 
once  boldly  and  sincerely  that — that  you  hate  me" — 

"Father!"— 

"There  !  how  dare  you  call  me  father,  which  ought 
to  be  a  name  of  reverence,  of  piety,  of  love,  when  you 
Q2 


178  THE    LAN'SBVS    OF 

well  know  that  in  your  heart  of  hearts  you  detest  me 
as  a  selfish,  cold,  unpitying  old  man?" 

"You  wrong  me,  father!  Never,  even  in  thought, 
has  my  affection  wandered  away  from  you.  I  have 
no  hopes,  no  wishes,  no  regret,  save  as  they  are  con- 
nected with  your  happiness.  For  my  own" — here 
she  sighed,  and  added,  after  a  pause,  "I  am  contented 
if  I  only  could  see  you  pleased  with  me — I  have  no 
other  object  now." 

"And  why  not  NOW  ?  Is  it  because  we  are  poor 
you  can  no  longer  be  cheerful  as  you  used  to  be — be- 
cause we  no  longer  see  { company/  as  they  call  it,  and 
have  our  ball-rooms  filled  with  the  grinning  sons  and 
daughters  of  vanity  ?  The  loss  truly  is  great.  I  won- 
der not  at  your  despair." 

"Oh,  father,  do  not  torture  me  by  speaking  so  un- 
kindly. You  know  that  the  loss  of  fortune,  that 
poverty  itself,  could  never  move  my  regrets." 

"  But  you  have  deeper  matters  for  sorrow,"  replied 
the  father  with  an  ironical  sneer.  "0,  doubtless,  you 
have  many  more  griefs  to  weigh  you  down  than  ever 
fell  upon  me ;  fortune  ruined — family  broken — hearth 
left  desolate — deserted  by  my  own  children,  and  sup- 
planted in  my  own  ancestral  halls  by  a  purse-proud, 
insulting  villain,  who" — 

"No,  not  a  villain,  dear  father,  not  a  villain" — 

"Yes,  madam,  a  villain;  I  say  a  proud,  presump- 
tuous, insensible  villain.  What !  and  is  Francis 
Lansby  still  master  of  that  silly  heart?  I  charged 


LANSBY   HALL.  179 

you  long  ago  to    dismiss    him    from  your  thoughts. 
Julia  Lansby,  why  have  you  not  obeyed  me?" 

"I  have  obeyed  you,  father,  in  all  things  possible. 
I  have  submitted  without  a  murmur  to  your  com- 
mands. I  have  given  you  my  promise  never  to  speak 
to  him,  to  write  to  him,  to  hear  of  him  or  from 
him,  without  your  consent;  and  till  this  extraordinary 
occurrence,  I  knew  not  whether  he  was  in  England, 
or  whether  he  was  alive  or  dead." 

"And  he  thinks  by  coming  down  hither,  and  over- 
powering us  with  his  wealth  and  splendour,  to  make 
us  regret  having  rejected  the  alliance  of  so  mighty  an 
individual  as  Mr.  Francis  Lansby  Merivale.  0  had 
my  son  but  lived,  my  noble,  handsome  Harry" — Sir 
Walter  put  his  hands  before  his  eyes  on  saying  this, 
and  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  as  if  overcome  with  the 
bitterness  of  his  reflections.  And  Julia  was  in  hopes 
that  the  irritation  of  his  temper,  which  had  lately  in- 
creased to  a  most  distressing  extent,  would  be  soothed 
by  the  indulgence  of  his  grief.  But  she  was  mistaken. 
Again,  with  the  same  cold,  sarcastic  sneer,  he  turned 
towards  his  daughter,  and  said,  "Your  meekness 
and  resignation  are  truly  amiable — your  love  to 
your  father  is  so  sincere — your  gratitude  for  all  his 

goodness  to    you  unbounded He  has  squandered 

away  his  fortune,  and  sunk  the  haughty  lady  of 
Lansby  Hall  into  the  inmate  of  no  loftier  a  dwelling 
than  this, — you  must  be  grateful  to  him  for  having 
saved  you  from  the  perils  of  wealth.  He  has  charged 
you — and  now  still  more  solemnly  than  ever  charges 


180 

you,  to  banish  from  your  remembrance,  or  to  remem- 
ber only  with  scorn  and  loathing,  the  wretch  who  has 
risen  upon  our  ruins,  who  looks  on  us — gracious 
heavens — perhaps  with  pity, — but  no — villain  as  he  is, 
he  dares  not  to  insult  us  with  his  pity." 

"What — what  has  he  done  to  deserve  your  anger? 
He  thinks  of  you,  I  will  answer  for  him,  only  as  the 
friend  and  benefactor  of  his  youth."  She  paused, 
and  then  added,  with  a  tone  of  touching  and  solemn 
dignity,  "  Francis  Lansby  thinks  of  you  as  MY  father." 

"And  as  such  he  curses  me,  or  the  Lansby  blood 
has  turned  to  milk  within  his  veins.  What  has  he 
done,  you  ask  me  ?  What  has  he  not  done  to  baulk 
and  injure  me  ?  Does  he  not  live?  Is  he  not  'a  gay 
and  prosperous  gentleman,'  with  hope,  fame,  happi- 
ness all  before  him,  while  the  golden  locks  of  my 
noble  Harry  are  gone  down  into  the  dust?  Why  is 
my  son  taken  from  me,  while  Fortune  showers  all  her 
blessings  upon  theirs?" 

Julia  looked  in  her  father's  face  as  he  uttered  these 
words;  but  withdrew  her  eyes,  as  if  horror-struck 
with  the  fierce  malignity  of  his  looks  and  language. 

"You  shudder,"  he  continued;  "but  it  is  not  mad- 
ness that  makes  me  speak  thus.  See,  I  am  cool ;  nay, 
I  can  smile — and  why  should  I  not?  Is  not  the  story 
I  am  now  about  to  tell  you  a  pleasant  one?  Come 
hither,  child,  and  listen. — I  was  an  only  son ;  but  my 
father  was  afraid  I  should  be  spoiled,  as  only  sons 
usually  are,  and  had  my  cousin  to  live  with  me,  and 
treated  us  in  all  respects  alike.  Our  boyhood  passed 


LANSBY    HALL.  181 

without  any  occurrence  to  call  forth  our  characters, 
except  that,  probably  from  knowing  his  dependent 
situation,  his  manners  were  so  soft  and  insinuating, 
that  they  formed  a  striking  contrast  to  the  manliness 
and  independence  of  mine.  At  college,  to  which  we 
went  together,  and  where  by  my  father's  orders  our 
intimacy  was  continued,  we  were  called  Lansby  the 
proud  and  Lansby  the  gentle.  I  confess  I  felf  myself 
flattered  by  the  distinction.  We  returned  home ;  we 
hated  each  other.  At  all  events,  I  can  answer  for 
myself;  for  him,  I  scarcely  think  he  had  manliness 
enough  to  hate  any  thing.  My  mother  now  was 
growing  old.  She  had  a  companion  to  reside  with 
her.  She  was  young  and  beautiful — surpassingly 
beautiful.  She  was  a  relation  of  my  mother's — high 
born  and  poor.  Ere  long  I  perceived  that  my  cousin 
Edgar  was  passionately  in  love  With  Helen.  What 
right  had  he,  the  soft,  the  delicate,  the  gentle,  to  lift 
his  eyes  to  so  glorious  an  object  as  Helen  Trevor  ?  / 
loved  her ;  and  it  added  to  the  intensity  of  my  passion 
to  think  how  the  insolence  of  my  rival  would  be  pun- 
ished when  I  should  ask  the  hand  of  the  object  of  his 
passion.  I  did  ask  her  hand  :  she  refused  it,  and  asked 
for  my  intercession  with  my  father  to  secure  his  ap- 
probation of  her  marriage  with  my  cousin.  From 
that  hour  I  hated  both.  Was  I  not  justified  !  But  I 
was  revenged.  Edgar  was  going  into  orders.  My 
father  had  promised  him  the  family  living;  the  incum- 
bent was  infirm  and  old.  They  married ;  I  gave  away 
the  bride.  They  lived  the  first  half  year  of  their 


182  THE    LANSBYS    OF 

marriage  in  this  very  house.  Here,  in  this  very  room, 
they  sat  and  gazed  on  each  other  in  the  first  happiness 
of  their  mutual  fondness.  My  father  died ;  and,  short- 
ly after  the  living  became  vacant.  This  Francis  was 
then  about  two  months  old.  I  called  upon  them,  and 
told  them  of  the  incumbent's  death.  I  described  the 
beauty  of  the  parsonage,  the  quietness  of  the  village  ; 
and  when  I  saw  the  young  mother  stooping  down, 
and  in  the  gladness  of  her  heart  covering  the  child  of 
Edgar  Lansby  with  her  kisses,  I  told  them  I  had  be- 
stowed the  living  upon  another.  You  start — it  was 
the  first  minute  of  enjoyment  I  had  had  for  years.  But 
they  still  were  happy.  I  gave  them  notice  that  I  had  put 
another  tenant  into  Springfield.  They  left  it ;  he  pro- 
cured a  curacy  in  some  distant  part  of  the  country.  I 
married ;  and,  even  in  the  first  months  of  matrimony, 
thought  much  more  of  their  happiness  than  of  my 
own.  My  Harry  was  born,  and  yet  I  felt  no  dimi- 
nution of  my  hatred.  At  your  birth  I  resolved,  if 
possible,  to  repay  to  the  son  the  agony  that  had  been 
inflicted  on  me  by  the  parents.  I  have  succeeded. 
One  after  another  they  died ;  they  were  poor  and 
miserable.  I  adopted  their  orphan  son  ;  I  made  him 
the  companion  of  my  children ;  I  watched  the  love 
that  grew  up  between  you, — and  when  I  perceived 
that  it  was  too  firmly  settled  in  his  heart  to  be  eradi- 
cated, I  turned  him  loose  upon  the  world.  I  feasted 
on  the  agony  of  his  looks,  for  in  them  I  recalled  the 
expression  of  his  mother.  And  now  what  has  it  all 
come  to?  My  boy  is  dead;  and  this  wretch,  this 


LANSBY   HALL*  183 

slave,  whom  my  bounty  fed,  is  adopted  by  his  mo- 
ther's uncle,  has  purchased  every  mortgage  upon  my 
estate ;  and  save  for  one  consuming  sorrow,  one  pas- 
sion which  I  know  from  experience  turns  all  his  other 
feelings  into  gall  and  bitterness,  he  would  be  too  happy 
for  a  mortal — successful  in  ambition,  in  love,  and, 
above  all,  in  revenge.  Isn't  this  a  pleasant  sketch, 

and Ha  !  what  has  my  madness  done?     Wretch, 

wretch  !  I  have  killed  my  child  !" 

He  bent  over  the  fainting  girl  with  his  hands  clasped 
in  agony,  and  his  whole  being  underwent  a  change. 
Cruel  and  malignant  as  he  had  truly  painted  himself,  his 
love  for  his  children  was  the  overpowering  passion  of 
his  mind.  Since  the  death  of  his  son,  this  love  all  con- 
centrated in  his  daughter ;  and,  however  strange  or 
unnatural  it  may  appear,  the  value  he  set  on  her,  the 
pride  he  took  in  her  talents  and  beauty,  were  the  very 
considerations  which  prevented  him  from  bestowing 
them  on  any  one  whom,  justly  or  unjustly,  he  had 
loaded  with  his  hatred.  He  knew  that,  by  the  bar  he 
had  placed  between  them,  her  happiness  was  as  much 
sacrificed  as  that  of  her  cousin — and  had  she  been  in- 
different to  him  he  would  not  have  condemned  her  to 
so  much  misery.  Hitherto,  indeed,  the  noble  beha- 
viour of  his  daughter  had  deceived  him.  Her  uncom- 
plaining meekness,  her  gentleness,  and  her  dutiful 
submission  to  his  will,  had  hidden  from  him  the  depth 
of  the  sufferings  she  endured.  And  unknown  perhaps 
to  himself,  there  was  another  ingredient  in  the  bit- 
terness of  the  hatred  which  he  professed  to  entertain 


184  THE   LANSBYS   OP 

for  Francis  Lansby.  Since  the  astonishing  change  in 
their  respective  situations,  her  former  lover  had  made 
no  efforts  to  discover  that  his  affection  for  Julia  was 
unchanged.  The  thought  of  his  being  able  to  forget 
his  daughter  was  more  galling  to  Sir  Walter's  dispo- 
sition than  even  his  marrying  her  would  have  been. 

"  Waken,  Julia !  rouse  yourself,  my  child  ;  I  spoke 
too  bitterly  ;  misfortune  has  made  me  mad.  I  hate 
him  not"  Whilst  he  uttered  these  exclamations, 
Julia  slowly  recovered,  and  looked  at  her  father  with 
a  faint  smile  as  if  to  thank  him  for  his  attempts  to 
comfort  her.  "But  he  has  forgotten  us,"  he  continued  ; 
"  he  thinks  not  of  us — and  why,  since  he  has  banished 
you  from  his  memory — do  you  continue  to  waste  a 
thought  on  him?" 

Ere  Julia  Lansby  had  time  to  reply,  Mr.  Nathaniel 
Clack  bustled  into  the  room,  followed  more  slowly  by 
his  friend  Mr.  Merton,  and  exclaimed,  "  Ha !  some- 
thing uncommon  here.  How  do,  Sir  Walter  ?"  Miss 
Julia,  how  d'ye  do  ?  Any  thing  happened,  Miss 
Julia  ?" 

"  Miss  Julia  Lansby  is  suffering  from  a  slight  indis- 
position," replied  Sir  Walter,  assuming  even  more 
than  his  usual  stiffness  and  hauteur. 

"Change  of  air — nothing  like  change  of  air  for  re- 
covering strength.  I  recollect  an  old  rascal  in  my  own 
village,  capital  fortune  once,  never  moved  from  home, 
bad  health,  nervousness,  pride,  anger,  and  all  that ;  lost 
his  fortune,  went  to  another  house,  moved  about,  bus- 
tled immensely,  'gad  you  can't  tell  what  a  good-natured 


LANSBY    HALL.  185 

sort  of  fellow  the  old  curmudgeon  became."  Mr. 
Nat  went  on  relating  this  not  very  well-chosen  anec- 
dote, disregarding  for  a  time  the  eye  of  the  proud  old 
man,  as  it  was  fixed  upon  him  with  the  most  withering 
expression  of  contempt.  At  last  he  perceived  it, 
stammered  a  little,  sank  his  voice,  and,  after  several 
attempts  to  clear  his  throat,  stood  mute.  In  the  mean 
time  Mr.  Merton  had  been  paying  his  compliments  to 
Miss  Julia,  and  now  addressed  himself  to  Sir  Walter. 

"  Well,  Sir  Walter,  I  hope,  as  we  are  nearer  neigh- 
bours than  we  used  to  be,  we  shall  see  more  of  each 
other.  My  Mary  has  begged  me  to  make  a  strong 
entreaty  for  a  visit  from  Miss  Julia." 

"  If  Julia  would  have  pleasure  in  leaving  her  father 
at  this  time,  she  has  my  full  consent.  It  would  ill- 
become  me  to  interfere  with  the  enjoyments  of  the 
young  and  careless." 

"Oh  !  if  you  can't  spare  her,  of  course  poor  Mary 
would  never  have  preferred  her  request.  She  knows 
Julia's  admirable  qualities  as  a  daughter  too  well  for 
that." 

"  Does  she  ?  And  does  she  indeed  suppose  that  I  am 
so  selfish  as  to  immure  her  in  a  desolate  place  like  this, 
merely  because  I  would  not  be  alone  ?  Julia,  you  shall 
return  with  Mr.  Merton." 

'•'You  are  lonely  here, father— the  days  are  dull  and 
dark.  It  would  be  better" 

"  I  have  said  it.  You  shall  visit  Mary  Merton  ;  I 
shall  probably  have  business  to  arrange  with  the  new 
proprietor  of  the  Hall,  and  perhaps  it  may  be  better 

R 


186  THE    LANSBYS    OF 

managed  in  your  absence.  Will  you  return  her  to  me 
in  a  week  ?" 

"  Certainly — and  in  the  mean  time  I  hope  the  so- 
ciety of  her  old  friends  will  be  of  use  to  her.  Is  it 
useless,  Sir  Walter,  to  ask  you  to  dine  with  me  on 
Thursday  next?  I  intend  to  invite  Mr.  Merivale." 

"Merivale?  and  you  ask  me  to  meet  Mr.  Meri- 
vale, to  dine  with  him,  talk  with  him,  hear  his  voice? 
what" 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  known  it  would  have  been  unpleasant, 
my  dear  Sir  Walter,  believe  me  I  should  never  have 
mentioned  the  subject." 

"On  Thursday,  did  you  say?  Have  you  seen  him?" 

"  No.  We  are  just  on  our  way  to  the  Hall  to  pay 
him  our  respects." 

"  On  Thursday  ?  He  will  certainly  accept  your  in- 
vitation. Julia,  you  will  meet  him  ;  I  wish  you  to 
meet  him." 

"Aha,  Miss  Julia,"  interrupted  Mr.  Clack,  who 
had  by  this  time  recovered  a  portion  of  his  volubility. 
"  He  is  quite  a  young  fellow,  I  understand.  Many 
odd  things  have  happened  in  that  sort  of  way. 

Shouldn't  be  surprised  if" but  the  unfortunate 

Nathaniel  was  again  afflicted  with  a  total  incapacity  to 
conclude  his  sentence. 

Visibly,  as  clouds  over  the  sky,  flitted  dark  mean- 
ings across  Sir  Walter's  features ;  but  by  an  effort  he 
seemed  to  restrain  himself,  and  went  on.  "You  shall 
stay  with  Mrs.  Merton  till  after  Thursday  ;  and  if  you 


LANSBY    HALL.  187 

will  allow  me  to  alter  my  mind,  I  will  also  join  your 
party. 

"  We  shall  be  delighted  I  am  sure.  Can  Miss  Julia 
accompany  us  now  ?  My  close  carriage  is  at  the  door, 
and  on  our  return  from  the  Hall  we  can  guard  her 
over  the  snow." 

Sir  Walter  bowed  at  this  offer  ;  seemed  to  swallow 
some  proud  speech  he  was  about  to  make  ;  and  with  a 
look  of  ineffable  disdain  to  the  now  quite  chop-fallen 
Mr.  Nat,  said — "  Miss  Lansby  has  still  a  carriage. 
She  shall  go  to  Merton  Manor  whenever  her  prepara- 
tions are  completed,  and  on  Thursday  I  shall  see  my 
child  again." 

There  was  no  gainsaying  any  thing  advanced  in  the 
authoritative  manner  which  Sir  Walter  habitually  as- 
sumed ;  so,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  gentlemen  were  on 
their  way  to  the  hall — Mr.  Nathaniel  Clack  muttering 
all  the  time  curses  not  loud  but  deep,  and  feeling  a  re- 
lief on  leaving  what  he  called  the  old  tyrant's  pre- 
sence, pretty  much  akin  to  what  we  should  consider 
the  sensations  of  a  monkey  which  by  some  miracle  has 
made  its  escape  from  a  tiger's  den. 


1S8  THE    LANSBTS    OF 


CHAPTER  III. 

"Tnis,  then,  decides  my  fate  for  happiness  or 
misery,"  said  Mr.  Francis  Lansby  Merivale,  as  he  rose 
from  his  writing-desk,  where  many  piles  of  paper  were 
lying  in  most  admired  disorder.  "  The  estate  is  once 
more  disencumbered,  and  the  directions  of  my  bene- 
factor complied  with,  in  restoring  the  old  hall  to  its 
rightful  owner.  What  then  ?  my  cause  is  still  more 
hopeless  than  before.  Even  if  I  prove  to  him  that  it 
is  the  will  of  the  person  leaving  me  this  fortune  that 
the  property  should  be  returned  into  his  hands,  I  know 
his  indomitable  pride  so  well,  that  the  gift  will  be 
viewed  as  an  insult ;  and  without  Julia,  what  happi- 
ness is  it  to  me  to  revel  in  useless  wealth  ?  Oh  !  for 
the  glorious  days  back  again  when  I  was  still  the  de- 
pendent of  Sir  Walter — still  the  companion  of  my 
Julia !"  The  packet,  which  he  folded  up  and  directed 
to  Springfield  Farm,  seemed  a  very  voluminous  one. 
The  letter  which  accompanied  it  contained  these 
words  : — 

"  The  estrangement  of  the  last  two  years  has  not 
obliterated  from  my  heart  the  kindness  of  the  protec- 
tor of  my  childhood.  With  my  whole  heart  I  thank 
you  for  the  home  you  afforded  me  when  other  home 
there  was  none  for  me  to  fly  to  ;  and  frown  not  if  at 


LANSBY    HALL.  189 

this  hour,  before  I  banish  myself  for  ever  from  the 
scene  of  all  the  memories  of  my  youth,  I  guard  myself 
against  any  suspicion  of  a  wish  to  conciliate  your 
favour  by  the  step  I  now  take.  The  Lansby  blood 
flows  as  proudly  in  my  veins  as  in  your  own. — 
lou  would  spurn  me,  as  I  knoxv  I  should  deserve 
to  be  spurned,  if  you  fancied  I  had  endeavoured 
to  purchase  a  reconciliation.  Deeply  as  I  should 
value  your  friendship,  and  unchanged  as  are  my  sen- 
timents on  a  subject  to  which  I  cannot  trust  myself 
to  allude,  I  cannot,  even  if  your  favour  were  accorded 
me,  accept  of  it  without  an  explanation  of  your  con- 
duct. I  tell  you,  Sir  Walter  Lansby,  that  your  con- 
duct has  been  cruel  and  unjust  In  the  pursuit  of  a 
selfish  gratification  you  have  ruined  the  happiness  of 
the  person  who  ought  to  be — nay,  I  will  do  you  the 
justice  to  admit,  who  is — the  dearest  to  you  on  earth. 
Do  you  deny  it  ?  Look  to  the  wan  cheek  and  wasting 
form  of  her  who  was  once — but  enough  of  this.  The 
estate  is  now  your  own.  The  will  of  Mr.  Merivale  is 
enclosed  for  your  perusal.  Think  not  that  I  entertain 
a  thought  that  this  change  in  our  positions  will  pro- 
dyce  any  change  on  your  determination.  If  you  can 
go  on  inflicting,  I  will  show  you  that  I  can  continue  to 
suffer.  From  this  hour  you  shall  hear  of  me  no  more; 
but  neither  time  nor  distance  shall  make  me  forget  for 
a  moment  the  being  to  whom  I  consider  myself  united 
in  the  sight  of  heaven.  Sir  Walter  Lansby,  she  is  mine 
by  vows  indissoluble  save  in  the  grave,  by  affections 
which  grew  with  our  growth,  and  are  unchangeable 

H2 


190  THE    LANSBYS    OF 

*• 

while  the  hearts  which  nourished  them  continue  to 
beat.  But  if  it  will  add  to  the  piquancy  of  your 
triumph,  I  will  not  conceal  from  you  that  -you  have 
driven  me,  as  well  as  that  other  one,  to  despair ;  that 
you  have  made  life  to  me  a  desert,  as  it  has  long  been 
a  solitude  to  her.  And  now  what  remains  for  me. 
Wealth  which  I  cannot  enjoy  ;  youth  which  will  waste 
away  in  misery  ;  and,  bitterer  perhaps  than  all,  a  con- 
sciousness that  these  injuries  are  inflicted  by  one 
whom  I  have  ever  loved — and  whom  I  have  never  of- 
fended." 

The  Thursday  appointed  for  the  party  at  last  arrived. 
With  a  degree  of  secrecy  which  entirely  eclipsed  the 
"  Wonder"  of  Mrs.  Centlivre's  comedy,  the  two 
young  ladies  had  given  no  hint  of  the  identity  of  young 
Frank  Lansby  and  the  present  proprietor  of  the  hall. 
Mr.  Merton  and  his  friend  Mr.  Clack  had  been  refused 
admittance  on  the  morning  of  their  call',  and  no  answer 
had  been  returned  to  the  note  of  invitation  which  Mr. 
Merton  had  despatched  on  the  succeeding  day. 

"  Devilish  queer  feilow  this  Mr.  Merivale,"  said 
•Mr.  Nat.  "  He  might  have  sent  an  answer  to  a  civil 
note  at  all  events,  if  he  wouldn't  let  us  into  his  cursed 
gimqrack  of  a  house  ;  in  the  snow  too.  Well,  hope 
he'll  come  after  all — drop  in  on  us — something  new  in 
that— eh  ?" 

"  Well,  I  hope  he  will  ;  but  I  suspect  the  meeting 
will  be  a  very  odd  one  between  him  and  Sir  Walter." 

"  D d  old  tyrant,"  muttered  Nat. 

"It will  be  very  queer  to  see  the  first  salutation 


LANSBY    HALL.  191 

exchanged  between  the  old  possessor  and  the  new 
one." 

"  Said  the  old  jackdaw  to  the  young  jackdaw,"  inter- 
rupted Mr.  Clack. 

"Come,  Nat,  out  with  your  best  stories.  Have  all 
your  smiles  and  similes  ready,  for  here  some  of  the 
party  come." 

Sir  Walter  came  among  the  rest ;  stately,  solemn, 
stiff  as  ever.  He  paid  his  respects  to  the  assembled 
-guests,  then  looked  anxiously  round  for  his  daughter, 
led  her  up  to  one  of -the  windows,  gazed  earnestly  in- 
to her  face,  and  clasping  her  in  his  arms,  imprinted  a 
kiss  upon  her  brow. 

"Egad  !  old  Iceberg's  beginning  to  thaw,"  whis- 
pered Mr.  Nat  into  the  ear  of  Mary  Merton,  for  al- 
ready he  had  begun  to  lose  the  power  of  very  audible 
conversation. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Sir  Walter,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "  we 
are  disappointed  of  Mr.  Merivale.  It  would  had  given 
me  great  pleasure,  though  I  have  not  the  honour  of 
knowing  him  myself,  to  have  been  the  medium  of  an 
introduction  between  such  near  neighbours." 

"  Not  know  him,  Mr.  Merton  ?  Well,  in  that  case  I 
believe  I  have  the  advantage  of  you.  I  know  him 
intimately."  Julia'  looked  inquiringly,  but  unob- 
served, into  her  father's  face  when  he  said  "this,  but 
the  features  were  as  rigid  and  inflexible  as  ever. 

Mr.  Merton  also-  must  have  thought  there  was  some- 
thing forbidding  in  his  countenance,  for  he  changed  the 
conversation  as  quickly  as  possible. 


192  THE    LANS3YS    OF 

"  I  hope  you  can  spare  Julia  to  us  a  few  days  lon- 
ger," said  Mrs.  Merton. 

"  Your  kindness  to  my  Julia  is  very  great.  We  are 
not  ungrateful  for  it,  But  she  returns  with  me  to- 
night." 

"  To  night  ?  Oh  !  I  hope  not." 

"  There  are  circumstances  that  require  her  immedi- 
ate return  to  Lansby — to  Springfield  Farm,  I  mean — 
I  sometimes  forget  how  changed  we  are." 

"  0,  not  to-night,  Sir  Walter.  Mr.  Mertori  or  Mr. 
Clack  will  be  so  happy  to  drive  her  over  to-mor- 
row." 

"  There  are  persons  in  this  neighbourhood,  madam, 
who  make  it  desirable  that  Miss  Julia  Lansby  should 
be  under  a  father's  eye." 

"The  cursed  old  bashaw,"  said  Mr.  Nat,  but  this 
time  to  himself ;  "  confound  me,  if  he  doesn't  think 
his  daughter  may  take  a  fancy  to  me."  Mr.  Nat 
gave  a  look  to  the  mirror,  and  pulled  forward  his  wig. 

But  Julia  knew  too  well  the  meaning  of  her  father's 
speech.  With  a  sigh  she  resigned  herself  to  her  fate, 
and  going  to  the  dining-room,  Mary  Merton  thought 
she  saw  the  dark  eyes  of  her  friend  moistened  with 
tears. 

What  could  have  been  the  meaning  of  her  father's 
conduct  in  first  forbidding  her  to  think  of  Francis 
Lansby,  and  then  in  sending  her  to  Merton  Manor, 
for  the  express  purpose,  as  it  were,  of  throwing  her  in 
his  way  ?  And  why  had  Francis  Lansby  not  come  to 
see  his  old  friends  the  Mertons,  even  if  he  had  had  no 


LANSBY    HALL.  193 

expectation  of  finding  her  there?  These,  and  five 
hundred  other  thoughts,  but  all  coming  to  the  same 
hopeless  conclusion,  occupied  her  all  the  time  of  dinner. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  universal  dulness  spread  over 
the  party.  Even  Mr.  Clack  had  very  little  conversa- 
tion, and  that  only  in  a  whisper.  The  liveliest  person 
of  the  party  was  Sir  Walter  Lansby  himself.  As  if 
in  bravado  of  his  fallen  fortunes,  he  was  more  cheerful 
than  ever  he  had  been  in  his  palmiest  days.  But  his 
daughter,  who  was  acquainted  with  all  the  phases  of 
his  character,  saw  that  his  liveliness  was  assumed,  and 
she  dreaded  the  reaction  which  was  sure  to  follow  so 
unnatural  an  effort. 

But  once  the  name  of  Merivale  was  mentioned, 
some  person  casually  inquired  if  there  were  not  a 
Devonshire  family  of  that  name  distantly  connected 
with  the  Lansbys. 

"  There  may  be,  sir,"  replied  Sir  Walter  ;  "and  as- 
a  person  said  of  his  connexions,  the  more  distant  they 
are  the  better." 

The  rareness  of  an  attempt  at  humour  on  the  part  of 
Sir  Walter  Lansby  compensated  for  the  poorness  of 
its  quality.  There  was  a  general  laugh  at  the  reply. 

"  Now,  confound  me,"  said  Mr.  Nat  to  his  neigh- 
bour, "  if  there  is  any  thing  to  laugh  at  in  what  old 
Chrononhoton  has  said.  A  man  who  has  any  reputa- 
tion for  wit  may  say  five  thousand  better  things  every 
hour  of  the  day,  but  really  witticisms  from  some  people 
are  so  common  that  people  take  no  notice  of  them. 
But  only  let  a  dull,  formal,  pedantic  old  blockhead 


194  THE    LANSBYS    OP 

give  utterance  to  the  very  oldest  Joe  Miller,  and  the 
thing  strikes  people  as  a  sort  of  miracle.  The  man 
will  die  a  wit  on  the  reputation  of  a  miserable  story 
badly  told." 

The  gentleman  to  whom  Mr.  Nathaniel  addressed 
himself  was  not  endowed  with  any  superfluity  of  me- 
taphysical acumen,  and  looked  most  wonderfully  con- 
tented with  Mr.  Nat's  explanation. 

"  Don't  you  think  so?"  continued  Mr.  Clack. 

"  Think  what,  my  dear  sir?" 

"  Why,  that  the  novelty  or  unexpctedness  is  every 
thing.  You  don't  expect  to  see  pigs  play  on  the 
fiddle?" 

"  No — who  the  devil  does?" 

"Nor  porcupines  to  make  watches?" 

«  No." 

"  But  if  you  saw  porcupines  making  watches,  or 
pigs  playing  on  fiddles,  you  would  think  it  very  re- 
markable, wouldn't  you?" 

"To  be  sure  I  should." 

"  Ah !"  said  Nat,  quite  triumphant,  ""I  was  certain 
you  would  agree  with  me  in  thinking  Sir  Walter's  re- 
joinder a  very  poor  one." 

The  gentleman  looked  at  Nat,  and  wondered  very 
much,  but  said  nothing. 

At  length  the  tedious  night  wore  on,  and,  greatly 
to  the  satisfaction  of  the  host  and  hostess,  not  to  men- 
tion the  now  reanimated  Mr.  Clack,  "  they  walked 
alone  the  banquet  hall  deserted."  Julia  saw  by  her 
father's  manner  that  something  very  unusual  had 


LANSBY    HALL.  195 

either  happened  or  was  about  to  happen.  Her  friend 
Mary  Merton  shared  in  her  apprehensions,  and  has 
very  often  mentioned  her  fears,  after  she  had  heard 
of  the  catastrophe  of  that  night  Old  Sir  Walter  sat 
moodily  silent  beside  his  daughter.  She,  deeply 
absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts,  took  no  notice  of  the 
pace  they  were  going  at,  or  even  of  the  carriage  in 
which  they  were  conveyed.  At  length  her  eye  caught 
the  trees  of  the  short  avenue  that  led  from  the  road  to 
Springfield  farm  ;  but  still  the  carriage  rolled  on.  She 
now  began  to  observe  that  the  chariot  was  very  dif- 
ferent from  the  one  in  which  she  had  made  her  visit 
to  Merton  Manor;  and  on  looking  round  to  her  father, 
for  every  thing  was  visible  by  the  light  of  a  clear  frosty 
moon,  she  saw  that  he  was  intently  watching  her 
countenance. 

"  You  don't  ask  me,  Julia,  where  we  are  going," 
he  said  ;  "  you  see  we  have  passed  the  farm?" 

"  I  saw  we  had  passed  it" 

"  And  have  you  no  wish  to  know  were  we  are 
going?" 

"Where?" 

"  To  the  hall.  Where  should  Sir  Walter  Lansby 
take  his  daughter  to  but  to  Lansby  Hall?" 

Julia  half  shrieked  as  he  said  this,  and  now  knew 
that  her  worst  fears  were  realized. 

"  Oh,  not  there  !"  she  cried,  "  not  there !" 

"  And  why  not?  Give  me  your  hand,  my  daughter ; 
are  you  not  safe  in  the  protection  of  your  father  ?" 

"  But  Frank — but  Mr.  Merivale" 


196  THE    LANSBYS    OP 

"  I  will  speak  to  him  in  the  house  of  my  ancestors 
as  they  would  wish  me  tcwspeak." 

The  lodge  at  the  gate  was  full  of  lights  ;  the  gate 
wide  open,  and  they  rapidly  approached  the  front 
door  of  the  hall.  Julia,  in  an  agony  of  apprehension, 
not  diminished  by  her  astonishment,  suffered  her  father 
to  lead  her  through  the  vestibule,  up  the  great  stair- 
cases, along  the  corridor,  and  opening  the  door  of  the 
library,  they  saw  standing  ready  to  receive  them  Mr. 
Francis  Lansby  Merivale.  1 

Julia  leant  trembling  on  her  father's  arm — Frank 
stood  as  if  expecting  Sir  Walter  to  begin  the  conver- 
sation. He  drew  his  daughter  closer  to  him,  paused 
for  a  moment,  then  laying  her  hand  within  that  of 
Francis  Lansby,  said, —  "Julia,  your  cousin  —  my 
children !" 

His  own  agitation  prevented  him  from  seeing  the 
effect  of  his  speech  upon  his  daughter.  "I  told  you, 
Francis  Lansby,  when  I  called  here  in  answer  to  the 
letter  you  had  sent  me,  with  the  documents  restoring 
this  estate  to  me  again,  that  to  accept  it  was  impossible, 
unless  for  the  purpose  of  conveying  it  tp  my  child. 
My  pride  is  broken  as  by  a  thunder-bolt.  Take  her. 
I  thought  it  was  impossible  for  the  hatred  of  a  Lansby 
to  suffer  decay — but,  nay,  no  thanks,  your  letter  was  a 
just  reproof.  When  the  ceremony  is  over,  I  shall 
return  to  the  farm,  and  find  consolation  in  reflecting 
that  the  son  of  Helen  Trevor  is  the  happy  husband  of 
the  daughter  of  Walter  Lansby." 

"  Well,  only  think,"  said  Mr.  Nathaniel  Clack,  as 


LANSBY    HALL.  197 

he  heard  the  circumstances  a  few  days  after  the;party, 
"  only  think  how  odd  it  is  that  that  frozen  automaton 
has  some  humane  feelings  after  all.  I  shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised, now  that  he  has  discovered  how  pleasant  it  is 
to  be  generous  and  good-natured,  if  he  were  even  a 
tolerable  companion  at  dinner." 

"  Shall  we  ask  him  to  meet  you  here  when  you  re- 
turn ?"  said  Mr.  Merton. 

"  No,  thank  ye  ;  I  must  have  farther  proofs  yet  of 
his  return  to  the  pale  of  civilization." 

"  Why,  I  thought  he  was  very  merry  even  on 
Thursday  last,"  said  Mrs.  Merton  ;  "  you  recollect 
what  a  funny  thing  he  said — what  was  it  again?  I 
always  forget  witty  speeches,  but  at  all  events  he  must 
have  been  the  wittiest  person  at  table,  for  I  recollect 
he  created  the  greatest  laugh." 

"  Fools  generally  succeed  best  in  raising  a  laugh," 
said  Mr.  Clack,  with  a  philosophical  toss  of  the  head. 

"  Ah !  that's  just  what  I  tell  my  Mary  ;  for  really, 
Mr.  Clack,  she  goes  on  giggling  and  laughing  when- 
ever you  open  your  lips." 

"•  Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "let  us  all  go  over 
some  day  next  week,  and  call  at  Springfield  farm.  By 
that  time  the  old  man  will  be  left  to  his  own  reflections, 
and  after  so  good  an  action  and  such  a  triumph  over 
his  evil  passions,  his  reflections,  I  should  think,  must 
be  very  pleasant  ones." 


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